Farewell, Friends

by Cryogenii

Rating: mature
Tags: Main 6, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Suicide / Self Harm, Tragedy, Violence, Slice of Life, Death
Length: 21628

Princess Twilight looks back on how her friends slipped away

How should the Princess commemorate her friends?

She knows how her subjects think of them but she knew them... what they were like, how they felt about themselves, and how they died.

On the day she's due to unveil their tribute, she finds herself opening old wounds as she is forced to once more face the grief and loss.

Published 2024-11-12 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2024-11-12 00:00:00 UTC

I'm Not Ready

Princess Twilight Sparkle gazed at her reflection in the tall, ornate mirror that stood against the wall of her private chamber. The rich surroundings—the grand crystal columns, the opulent curtains of deep purple and gold, the polished marble floors—seemed to mock her numbness. Everything around her was a testament to her status and power, yet it all felt hollow, a stark contrast to the austerity of emotion that gripped her heart. The events she was preparing to commemorate left her cold, and the chill draught that slipped through the heavy curtains from the flat, grey sky outside made her shiver despite her comfortable surroundings. Canterlot, the grand mountaintop city that had witnessed so much history, felt distant and frigid today, its bustling streets lost beneath the looming shadow of this sombre moment.

Twilight let out a heavy sigh, her violet eyes clouded with a deep, unshakable sadness. The crown upon her head felt heavier than ever, the jewelled emblem of state pressing down on her chest like a burden she longed to cast aside. Princess Twilight Sparkle’s gilded shoes alternated between a soft thud and a sharp clack as she paced across her chamber. The thick rug in the centre of the room muffled her steps, but each time her hooves hit the edges of the polished marble floor, the sound echoed harshly, reverberating in the stillness around her. The contrasting rhythm mirrored the turmoil in her heart—her movement steady but her thoughts chaotic. Every step felt like a battle between the comforting, familiar routine of duty and the raw, aching grief gnawing at her core as she felt the uncomfortable weight of everything she was meant to represent. It wasn’t just her official attire; it was the responsibility, the endless years stretching ahead of her without the friends who had made her life meaningful.

She paced the chamber, her wings twitching anxiously at her sides, the crisp air brushing against her feathers. Her lips moved in a near-silent murmur as she rehearsed, for what felt like the thousandth time, the speech she was expected to deliver. She had written it, rewritten it, revised and refined it—yet nothing felt right. The words hung empty in her mouth, as if no combination of sentences could capture the depth of what she felt or the magnitude of the lives she was meant to honour. The world would remember her friends as heroes, but to her, they had simply been her friends—her family. She swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in her throat as her gaze fell once again on the desk across the room.

There, the leather-bound diary of her official engagements lay open. The pages, neat and orderly at first glance, were filled with dates, appointments, and royal duties. But further in, hidden among the formal entries, were passages of private reflection. In recent weeks, the diary had become a sanctuary for her thoughts, her place of solace when she couldn’t bear to speak her heart aloud. Her… journal. There, in those hidden lines, she had confessed her pain, her doubts, and her grief over the loss of her dearest friends. It was where her true feelings lived—the ones she couldn’t put into the speech, the ones she was still afraid to confront, even now.

Twilight’s ears twitched as she heard footsteps echoing softly down the grand corridor outside her chamber. The approaching sound was different from the usual heavy hooffalls of a royal guard or castle servant—it was the distinctive clack of talons on marble, faint but unmistakable, that signalled it wasn’t a pony heading her way. Her anxiety tightened with each step, the rhythm tapping at her already frayed nerves.

Then, the inevitable came. A polite knock, followed by a soft, familiar voice.

"Twilight?" Spike’s voice drifted in as he gently pushed the door open, careful not to intrude too quickly. His head peeked around the frame, green eyes wide with concern. "It’s nearly noon. The ceremony’s starting soon. Thought I’d give you a heads-up."

Twilight’s muscles tensed, her wings twitching against her sides. She’d known it was coming, felt it like an invisible clock counting down in her mind. But having it spoken aloud made the looming event all the more real. She swallowed, irritation bubbling up before she could stop it.

“I know what time it is,” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. The sound sliced through the stillness of the chamber like a blade, the weight of her frustration landing more heavily than she wanted. “The ceremony can wait until I’m ready.”

Spike blinked, taken aback, his crest drooping slightly as her words hit home. Guilt stabbed at Twilight immediately. She hadn’t meant to lash out—least of all at Spike, who was always so patient with her. His expression shifted, though, understanding was clear in his eyes.

"Right... I’ll keep things on hold," he said gently, his voice soft but steady. “We’ll wait for you, Twi. Take your time.”

He withdrew, the door closing with a soft click. Twilight stood frozen in the centre of her room, the lingering echo of her sharp words making her wince. Spike had been with her through so much, and yet she’d let her frustration spill over onto him—again. He knew better than anyone what she was going through, but that didn’t make it easier to bear.

Alone once more, Twilight let out a shaky breath, her wings drooping slightly. Spike had been so loyal to her, always faithful, always there. Yet here she was, snapping at him when all he was trying to do was help.

Twilight stumbled toward her desk, her legs weak as though they’d lost their strength, barely able to support the weight of her grief. The moment her body hit the grandly decorated chair in front of it, she collapsed into the cushioned seat, sinking deep into its comfort. Her breath came out in ragged, uneven bursts, and her heart pounded in her chest like it was trying to escape. She stared blankly ahead, but soon enough her eyes were drawn—inexorably—to the worn diary sitting atop the polished surface.

The well-used pages seemed to call to her, offering an outlet for the emotions she had so long tried to control. Twilight’s horn sparked to life, glowing dimly as she flipped through the journal, each page brimming with her thoughts, memories, and unspoken pain. Her magic wavered as she handled the delicate sheets, each turn slow and heavy with the weight of what was written within.

As the words filled her vision, her thoughts spiralled deeper into the past. She could see each of them, her friends, etched so vividly into her memory—their smiles, their laughter, the moments of triumph and joy they had shared. But the pages also recorded the aching truth of their absence. Each lost friend, now only alive in the ink on these pages, was too much to bear. Her hooves trembled slightly on the edge of the journal, and her chest tightened with the tension running through her.

Twilight’s breath hitched as the memories flooded back, unchecked. Pinkie’s laughter, now silenced. Fluttershy’s gentle voice, once filled with warmth, gone forever. And Rainbow Dash—her vibrant colours and undying confidence—a painful echo that left an unfillable void. Each one of them left behind a scar, raw and aching, and now, faced with the monumental task of commemorating them publicly, the weight of it all seemed to crash down on her.

Her trembling only worsened, and tears blurred her vision as she read over the entries. She had written so much, and yet it felt like nothing would ever be enough to convey the depth of her love, her loss, her helplessness.

I want to see you smile

Twilight sat back in her chair, eyes drifting over the distant memories as if they floated just beyond reach. Pinkie Pie had been the first to go. Of all her friends, Twilight never would have thought it would be her—full of life, laughter, and joy. Not least because she was the youngest of them. It made Pinkie’s death the most shocking, maybe because it was unexpected, or maybe because Twilight had always believed Pinkie’s light would never fade. Poor, troubled Pinkie. Twilight's breath hitched as a familiar guilt welled up in her chest.

How had she missed it? All the times Pinkie had been right there, smiling and giggling, brightening the room. Was it really joy, or had it been a mask? A façade that none of them, not even she, had the presence of mind to see through? Twilight’s horn sparked with frustration as she leaned heavily into the desk. It gnawed at her, the thought that maybe, if she had been a better friend, she could have seen what was happening in front of her.

She cursed her blindness—or was it willful ignorance? A sigh escaped her lips, bitter and sharp. There had to have been signs, hadn’t there? She replayed the moments again, a haunting reel of Pinkie’s laughter, the forced grins, the unspoken sadness that had been hidden behind those sparkling eyes. Surely, if she had been a true, true friend, she would have seen it. Would have noticed Pinkie’s pain and despair creeping through the cracks.

Twilight's hoof trembled as it brushed against her diary, the weight of it pressing down like a stone in her heart. The thought of Pinkie's pain felt unbearable, even now all these years later.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest tightening as she tried to block out the image. But it was no use—Pinkie's final letter burned behind her eyelids, every word etched into her memory. Poor, selfless Pinkie. Her final words had been exactly what one might expect of her, beginning with a desperate plea: Please don't be sad for me. Even at the end, Pinkie was thinking of them, wanting to ease their pain, never wanting to be a burden. Twilight’s heart ached as she remembered the rest—the part that haunted her the most.

Pinkie Pie had always been the one to remind them that even the happiest ponies had their dark days. Though her laughter was infectious and her parties a staple of Ponyville life, her closest friends knew that Pinkie had her own battles with depression. It was an almost unimaginable shift, startling in the contrast to her normal maniacally high energy levels. For days, weeks even, she’d be the bright center of every gathering, her laughter lighting up the room, her energy an endless well of joy. Then, suddenly, that light would fade. Pinkie would vanish from sight, isolating herself in her room at Sugarcube Corner or disappearing into the outskirts of Ponyville, leaving even her closest friends to wonder where she’d gone.

The depth of Pinkie’s low points was startling. During these times, the color seemed to drain from her—her coat somehow dimmer, her once bouncy mane flattening as though weighed down by an invisible burden. Her voice, usually animated and expressive, would drop to a soft murmur, with none of its usual lilt. For days at a time, she would hardly say a word. Her friends tried every way they could to coax her out of it: Rarity would come by with a pot of tea and a sympathetic ear, while Applejack might invite her to the farm to help with the animals or play with Apple Bloom. But they could feel that her sorrow ran too deep for quick remedies.

There was a solemn reverence with which they came to approach these episodes, knowing Pinkie’s pattern all too well. She would need time, patience, and the reassurance that her friends would wait for her, no matter how long it took. But each time, Twilight couldn’t shake a growing sense of helplessness. Every pony wanted to believe that Pinkie’s grief was temporary, a passing storm in an otherwise sunny life. Yet each time, it seemed harder for her to bounce back, as though her spirit had to dig a little deeper just to find the surface again.

Pinkie had always known, on some level, that her mind worked differently. She recognized the heavy shadows that would creep up on her without warning, the way her energy would vanish like a candle snuffed out in a storm. But even knowing that, she resisted seeking help. Maybe it was pride, or perhaps a fear that her “Pinkieness”—that vibrant, unique spark she so prized—would somehow be dulled. If she let some stranger pry into the depths of her mind, would she emerge the same Pinkie Pie her friends knew and loved? She joked about it sometimes, saying a pony couldn’t possibly be as “extra-regular” as her without a little quirkiness. But the glint in her eye always faded at that last word, and her friends knew there was more under the surface.

Her friends worried for her, sensing her struggles even if they didn’t fully understand them. And there were moments when Pinkie let the mask slip, allowing Twilight or Applejack glimpses of the pain she carried. Late one night, when the weight had become too much to bear alone, Pinkie confided in Twilight. She shared that, during her lowest moments, it was as though her mind was caught in a raging storm, with whispers and thoughts that tried to drag her under. Every time she fell into one of those dark pits, it was a battle to claw her way back out. She was always left a little more worn, a little more fragile than before.

But it was her final confession that haunted Twilight most: Pinkie had admitted, voice shaking, that she knew those dark thoughts only needed to win once. “Every time, Twi,” she’d whispered, “I fight to make it back. But someday... I just worry someday they’ll be stronger than me.” The thought had terrified her, but she brushed it off with a laugh, saying she had friends who wouldn’t let her fall. And yet, for all their love, Twilight couldn’t shake the dread that lurked behind Pinkie’s forced smile, knowing that there was only so much they could do against a storm they couldn’t see.

It hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary when Pinkie announced she was heading to the family rock farm. With a husband like Cheese Sandwich, known for his steady devotion and a knack for keeping their foals entertained, Pinkie had every reason to feel at ease leaving them in his care for a few days. No one questioned it; in fact, they all figured a trip to the rock farm might be exactly what she needed. Limestone was taken by surprise when Pinkie arrived unannounced, but Pinkie Pie’s sudden appearances had always been part of her charm. Limestone assumed it was just Pinkie being Pinkie, full of spontaneity and a little whimsy.

For the first couple of days, Pinkie threw herself into the farm work with an intensity that took Limestone aback. She hefted rocks with purpose, worked the fields, and settled into the chores like it was any other visit. But something felt off, and Limestone could sense it in the quiet that followed. Pinkie sat with the family at dinner, sharing smiles and nodding along with their stories, but when night fell, she retreated to her room without the usual goodnight hugs or lingering laughs. As the days passed, Limestone began to worry that this silence was not just her usual troubles but something far deeper.

Limestone eventually sent Marble to check on her, figuring that Pinkie might respond better to their gentle sister’s soft touch. But Marble emerged from Pinkie’s room shaking her head, unable to get a word out of her. They considered calling for Maud, hoping that the unshakeable strength of her closest sister might draw Pinkie out of whatever was weighing on her, but it was too late. By the time they’d gathered enough courage to reach out for help, Pinkie had already made her choice. Her struggle, though hidden, had come to a heartbreaking end, and they were left reeling with the sudden realization of how much she’d kept to herself.

When Pinkie didn’t come down to help with breakfast, an unfamiliar, creeping dread settled over Limestone and Marble. The morning felt eerily still without her cheery footsteps, and though they tried to dismiss it as another one of her unpredictable moods, the silence soon grew unbearable. They called to her through the closed door, urging her to come down, trying to shake her out of whatever slump she might be in—but the only answer was a hollow quiet that thickened the air around them. Limestone and Marble exchanged a look, each understanding without words that this was unlike anything they’d dealt with before.

When their knocking went unanswered, Limestone pushed against the door, feeling resistance as it scraped over something on the floor. She forced it open, barely noticing the rolled blankets that had been pressed under the gap to seal the room. The dim light filtering in from the window felt stifling as Marble dashed forward, flinging it open to let in air. But Limestone was already across the room, her heart pounding as she reached Pinkie’s bed.

Her sister lay as if sleeping, her once-pink coat tinged an unnatural blue, and her eyes closed in a peace that made Limestone’s stomach churn. The weight of finality filled the room, solid and suffocating. It was Marble’s soft gasp that pulled Limestone’s attention to the small pile of canisters near the bed—canisters of the very same gas that Pinkie used to inflate her endless stream of party balloons. Their valves were twisted open, and their contents had filled the room, smothering it in a silence that seemed to mock the joy they’d always associated with those colorful balloons.

On the nightstand beside Pinkie’s simple bed, a note rested. It was written on cheerful pink paper, decorated with bright cartoonish images of cakes and streamers, an irony so stark that it stung their eyes. The hoofwriting was unmistakably Pinkie’s, each word carefully penned as if she were giving them one final party invite.

Pinkie had written that she wasn’t in pain anymore, that awful kind of pain no pony could see. Twilight could almost hear her voice in the words, a cheerful tone masking the unbearable truth behind them. She’d talked about the awful sense of being watched, judged, as though eyes she couldn't see were constantly following her, condemning her for every small mistake. The voices... Pinkie had mentioned them too. The relentless voices, whispering in her mind, telling her she wasn’t good enough, that she was worthless, that her friends secretly thought the same.

Twilight felt herself trembling as she recalled that part of the letter—Pinkie describing how something always felt just out of sight, lurking in the corners of her vision. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t turn quickly enough to catch it. Always there, but never truly visible. Twilight’s breath hitched, her sorrow deepening as she remembered the final words Pinkie had written about her family. She loved her husband, Cheese Sandwich, and adored their foals. But the weight of her smiles, the endless effort of being the happy, joyful Pinkie everyone needed her to be, had become too much to bear.

Twilight's breath shuddered as the memories deepened. It wasn’t just the letter that haunted her, but the aftermath—the day she had arrived at the Pie family rock farm, too late to do anything but offer her hollow condolences. The anguished cries of Pinkie’s foals still rang in her ears, piercing, heartbreaking sobs that had reverberated through the otherwise silent landscape of the barren farm. It had felt so wrong, so unimaginable that these little ones, who had inherited Pinkie’s boundless energy and joy, were now collapsed in a heap of tears, robbed of their mother far too soon.

But what haunted Twilight the most wasn’t just the cries of the young ones. It was Maud Pie, Pinkie’s sister. Normally as solid and staid as the stone from which the family took their living, she had been utterly broken that day. Twilight had never seen the old mare shed a tear in all the years she’d known her, but that day... she had wept. Not the quiet, dignified grief one might expect from such a strong, stoic pony, but loud, heaving sobs of a sister who had lost her light, her laughter, and the source of joy in her life. The memory of her weeping, inconsolable and shaking, gnawed at Twilight’s heart. She had been as immovable as the rocks she loved her entire life, and yet the loss of Pinkie had reduced her to a grief-stricken shadow of herself.

And Cheese... poor Cheese Sandwich. The smile that had once mirrored Pinkie’s in its infectiousness had vanished entirely. He stood beside his wife’s grave, hollow-eyed, his usually bright and cheerful demeanour extinguished. Twilight would never forget the sight of him, his mane dishevelled, eyes swollen from sleepless nights, looking as though the joy had been permanently drained from him. He had tried, of course, to stay strong for their foals, to offer what comfort he could, but it was clear that without Pinkie, a vital part of him was gone. Twilight could barely reconcile the image of the exuberant party planner with the broken stallion standing in front of her.

The worst part was that Pinkie, in her final, delusional state, had believed she was sparing them all from the weight of her suffering. She had convinced herself that by ending her life, she was doing them a favour, relieving them of the burden of her invisible pain. But Twilight knew better—she had seen the devastation left in Pinkie’s wake, the deep, raw wounds that would take years to heal, if they ever healed at all. Ending her life had brought nothing but heartbreak and despair to the very ponies Pinkie had loved the most, the family she had thought she was protecting. Pinkie had been horribly, tragically wrong. Twilight couldn't find it in herself to be angry at her friend, or even disappointed. No pony truly knew the agony that the candy-coloured clown was carrying as she entertained all around her.

Twilight scrunched up her muzzle in frustration, her breath coming out in uneven gasps. She was lying to herself now, and she knew it. Just as they had all lied to themselves back then. It was easier to pretend there hadn't been signs, that they couldn't have done anything. But deep down, they had all seen it—the way Pinkie would sometimes slip into moments of despair, retreating from the world with an eerie silence that was so unlike her. Those moments had been brushed aside, rationalised away as "just a phase," because none of them wanted to face the truth that something was terribly wrong.

There were times—too many to count—when Pinkie had isolated herself, shutting the door to her bedroom, her mind, her heart. The parties would stop, the smiles would vanish, and Pinkie would become a ghost in her own life. They had always told themselves it was temporary, that she would snap out of it. And she did, every time. She would reappear in a burst of confetti and balloons, her joy as bright and infectious as ever. But now Twilight wondered if that joy had been real, or if it had just been a mask, hastily applied to hide the darkness inside.

Twilight's heart clenched, guilt flooding through her. What if they had been torturing their poor, damaged friend? Every time they pulled Pinkie back into the spotlight, celebrating her "recovery" as if that meant everything was fine again, what if they had been ignoring the deeper wounds that were festering inside her? What if the laughter, the grins, the endless parties had been nothing more than a desperate act, a dying flame trying to burn bright one last time before being snuffed out for good?

A bitter laugh escaped Twilight's throat. Some Princess of Friendship she was. She had been so blind, so cowardly. They all had. It had been easier to focus on the good times, to believe that Pinkie's joy would always return, that she was somehow immune to the deep pain that affected others. But Pinkie had never been immune. She had been suffering right in front of them, and they had failed her. Twilight had failed her.

Twilight squeezed her eyes shut against the shame, a fresh wave of regret crashing over her. How many times had they forced Pinkie back into the role they wanted her to play? How many times had they thought that if she just smiled, laughed, and threw another party, everything would be better? But the truth was, Pinkie's recovery had never been real. It had been an act—a final, desperate attempt to hold on, to give them what they wanted, to be the pony they all expected her to be.

Twilight trembled as the weight of her failure bore down on her. They had all thought that bringing Pinkie out of her dark moments was the solution. But what if, in doing so, they had ignored her cries for help? What if, instead of helping, they had only pushed her further into the darkness, until she couldn't find her way out anymore?

Twilight clenched her jaw, her eyes stinging with tears. If only they had seen the signs. If only they had known what was lurking beneath that bright, bubbly exterior. But they hadn’t. She hadn’t, before it was too late.

Red in tooth and claw

Twilight leaned back, her chest still trembling with the sobs that threatened to escape. She took a moment to steady herself, then rose from her desk, her hooves feeling heavy beneath her. Stepping through the grand glass doors, she walked onto the private balcony adjoining her chambers. The cool mountain air rushed over her, and she drew in a deep breath, hoping it would calm the storm of emotions raging inside. Her eyes roamed the horizon, only to catch sight of birds flitting around the castle walls, their soft chirping echoing through the air. For a moment, it was a beautiful distraction.

But with the birds came memories—memories of the next of her friends to depart... sweet, kind Fluttershy.

Twilight’s lips trembled, and her gaze softened as it followed the birds in flight. Fluttershy had always been so close to nature, her heart open to even the tiniest and most timid of creatures. She held a special bond with them, an empathetic understanding that spoke louder than words ever could. Fluttershy could also calm even the fiercest beast with just a gentle word, her voice no more than a soft whisper, soothing the chaos in the wild hearts around her.

Of all of them, Fluttershy had always been the most delicate. Yet, there had been a quiet strength in her—a strength that came not from force but from love. She had devoted her life to caring for others, not just ponies but every living thing. Her cottage on the edge of Ponyville had been a sanctuary, a haven where animals found shelter, and even the most broken creatures found comfort in her presence. Twilight smiled faintly, remembering the countless times they had all gathered there, surrounded by Fluttershy’s furry and feathered companions, feeling as if the world itself grew softer in her company.

There had been something spiritual about the way Fluttershy cared for others. It wasn’t the influence of spells or ancient power, but the magic of compassion, a gift that seemed to flow from her heart into everything she touched. She never sought recognition or praise, only the quiet contentment of knowing that she had made a difference in the lives of those who couldn’t speak for themselves. To Twilight, that kind of magic was rarer than anything she had ever read in books or studied in her long years of learning.

Twilight’s thoughts drifted further, her heart aching with the memory of how Fluttershy had taught them all that even the fiercest creature—or demi-monster—was capable of being treated with tenderness, even deserving to be. It had been one of Fluttershy’s most extraordinary gifts, trusting in the good in beings no other pony would even dare to approach. While others might have seen only the danger or ferocity, Fluttershy had seen through it all—she had seen the fear, the pain, the misunderstood souls hiding beneath the sharp teeth and claws.

Twilight recalled the countless times Fluttershy had been moved to step forward when others hesitated. From the towering, smoke-belching dragon high in the mountains to the snarling manticore in the Everfree Forest, it was Fluttershy who had approached them with a heart full of patience.

When needed though, this most gentle of ponies had an indomitable force of will. There was a righteousness in her convictions. Even in the face of the monstrous cockatrice, a creature that could turn ponies to stone with a glance, Fluttershy with her iron-clad resolve never wavered. In those rare moments when she needed to assert her will and stand firm, there was no malice in her actions though—only the deepest care for the creatures around her.

Twilight remembered the look in Fluttershy’s eyes when she had been told to befriend Discord, a spirit of chaos and disharmony. While others had been distrusting, even fearful, Fluttershy had looked at him with the same warmth she offered to the smallest bunny. She had believed, even then, that Discord was capable of more than just chaos. And she had been right—Fluttershy had been the key to his reformation, her friendship slowly unravelling the layers of disorder and callousness that had consumed him for so long. It was something that had seemed impossible, even to Twilight at the time, yet Fluttershy had managed to achieve it with nothing but kindness.

Twilight sighed, her gaze still following the birds flitting in the distance. Fluttershy had shown them all what it meant to truly see another being, to look beyond appearances and meet them with empathy. It was a lesson that stayed with Twilight long after her friend had gone, a reminder that even in a world full of magic, sometimes the most powerful force of all was simply a kind heart. In Fluttershy’s eyes, there were no monsters—only creatures in need of understanding.

No matter the circumstances, Fluttershy was always the first to offer aid. And that was what killed her.

Twilight's heart clenched as she remembered what she was told of that terrible day—the day when Fluttershy's unyielding compassion had cost her everything. The day a diseased timber wolf had stumbled from the Everfree Forest, its grotesque form lurching toward Ponyville in agony. The poor creature, made of rotting sticks and branches, was barely recognizable as a timber wolf. Mould clung to its body, devouring the very wood that made up its form. Twilight could picture it, the creature staggering on splintered legs, its eyes wild with desperation as its hunger drew it towards the life and noise of the town.

Unlike its peers, who would have never dared to approach so close, this timber wolf was driven mad by the pain. Its body, decaying faster than it could heal, tried and failed to replace its rotting limbs. Every new piece of timber it absorbed from the forest became infected, the mould spreading like wildfire, overwhelming its natural magic. It was no longer a creature of the wild, but a twisted, pitiful thing—torn between its instinct to retreat and a frantic need to escape its starvation and torment.

Where everypony else saw an imminent threat, Fluttershy only saw a creature in pain, something that needed help. She had always believed in the goodness that existed deep within every living thing, no matter how fearsome or dangerous. And so, when the timber wolf limped toward Ponyville, Fluttershy, without hesitation, had done what no other pony would have dared—she stood in its way, heart full of compassion and eyes full of resolve.

Twilight had heard parts of the story so many times, passed from pony to pony, each detail shared with reverence and sorrow. She hadn’t been there, not that day, but she could picture it clearly from the accounts of those who were. They had all told her the same thing—how Fluttershy had bravely faced the obvious threat, her soft voice cutting through the tense silence that gripped the town and the agonised growls of the wolf.

The townsfolk had peeked out from behind their closed doors and shuttered windows, too afraid to do more than watch as the decrepit timber wolf stumbled closer and closer. Nopony dared move. Nopony except Fluttershy. She had stood firm, her yellow wings half-unfurled in that familiar calming gesture, her gentle eyes focused solely on the creature. Even in the face of something so terrifying, Fluttershy had shown nothing but compassion.

Fluttershy stayed close to the diseased timber wolf, speaking to it in soothing tones as she led it through the quiet outskirts of Ponyville, her voice a soft reassurance for both the creature and herself. She hadn’t cared about the danger, her heart open as ever. Her only goal had been to help the creature, to lead it away from the town, out of harm's way, even if it meant risking her own life. Gradually she trotted away from the houses and shops, making sure the wolf was focused on only her as she bent it's path back towards her cottage and the forest beyond.

The wolf’s movements were ragged, each step punctuated by the creaking of its bark-like joints and the occasional shudder. Still, Fluttershy kept her pace steady, her focus unwavering, guiding it slowly, steadily, back toward the edge of the forest. Whether she planned to tend to its suffering or simply find it a quiet place to die, no one could truly say.

The ponies who witnessed it said she spoke to the creature in her usual way—calm, steady, her voice soft and soothing. "It's okay," she had said, leading the writhing beast. "I know you're hurting. I'm here to help you, to take the pain away." Her words, as always, had reached the timber wolf, slowing its erratic movements and drawing its attention just enough for her to begin leading it away from the town.

Twilight's chest ached as she remembered what they had told her next—the lone figure, so brave, so kind, guiding the suffering beast away as the ponies of Ponyville could only watch.

Before she'd even crossed the outskirts of the town, Fluttershy was giving the timber wolf a gentle nudges, her soft touch urging it forward. She barely flinched as it stopped to look at her, the dim glow of its eyes flickering like embers. It was as if she’d become its anchor, guiding it back to its final place in the world. And with each step closer to the forest, the wolf’s aggression faded, replaced by a weariness that only she seemed to understand.

It had seemed like Fluttershy’s quiet heroism was about to add another chapter to her legacy of selfless bravery. She had done it so many times before—calmed the fiercest beasts, soothed creatures that no other pony would dare approach. And on that day, it seemed no different. As the timber wolf's panting slowed, as its erratic movement lessened under Fluttershy’s gentle guidance, there had been hope in the air. The townsfolk watching from behind their shutters had thought, for just a moment, that Fluttershy might save both the creature and their town.

But then it happened. The rotten timbers along the wolf’s back had splintered, the decay finally too much for its failing body. A sharp crack echoed through the air. Fluttershy had rushed forward, instinctively, just like she always did. She had tried to do something, anything, to help—to ease the agony, to comfort the creature she only saw as suffering. But this time, her kindness couldn’t reach it. The timber wolf, crazed by pain and driven mad by disease, struck out with its crumbling claws.

Twilight could barely breathe as she remembered what the witnesses had said—how, in one terrible moment, the timber wolf lashed out, a final, frenzied burst of strength from the disease-ridden beast. With a force that belied its crippled state, it struck Fluttershy, slamming her small form to the ground. The impact stole the breath from her lungs, and an agonized gasp escaped her as pain lanced through her chest—the jagged claws had broken through her ribs, smashing her frail body with the weight of its heavy, splintered paw.

Fluttershy struggled, instinctively trying to crawl away, her movements hopelessly slow and weak. The wolf, driven by its feverish state, bore down on her, pinning her beneath its full weight. Witnesses watched, helpless and horrified, as they heard the terrible crack of bones splintering under the timber wolf’s relentless grip, Fluttershy’s limbs bending unnaturally, her wings crushed beneath her body. Each attempt to escape sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through her shattered legs, and her quiet gasps turned to screams, desperate cries that echoed through the silent forest edge. The beast's snarling breath rumbled through the air, a grim counterpoint to her heart-wrenching pleas, as Fluttershy—always so gentle and kind—found herself pinned, unable to escape the horror she had once tried to save.

As the creature’s weight bore down upon her, Fluttershy coughed, a harsh, rattling sound that sent a dark trickle of blood spilling from her lips. With trembling breaths, she forced herself to look up into the beast’s fever-bright eyes, her voice barely a whisper, raw with pain and desperation. “Please... ” she gasped, her last word catching as a wave of agony washed through her chest.

The townsfolk, frozen with fear, could only listen in horror as her incoherent wails filled the air. Horrible, primal sounds that would echo through their collective nightmares for months to come. The incoherent wails of agony seeming to stretch beyond sanity—until, suddenly, they were cut off. The timber wolf, in its rage, had torn into her throat, savaging her flesh and ending the horrible sound in a brutal attack.

A sharp, jagged silence settled over the scene, the timber wolf’s savage bite leaving only the chilling stillness of death. Her small form lay motionless, a spreading pool of blood beneath her a dark, accusing stain against the earth. The air itself seemed to close around the silence, as if unwilling to carry even the faintest whisper in the wake of what had just transpired.

The ponies who had been watching spoke of a moment when reality itself seemed to rip apart. In the aftermath of Fluttershy's death, they said, the very air had shimmered and cracked, as if unable to contain the rage of what was about to emerge. With a flash of searing light Discord—the demigod of chaos—tore his way into their dimension, fusing the rocks beneath in the white-hot explosion of his entrance. His yellow eyes blazed with elemental fury, wild and terrible, as he stared down the timber wolf that had taken his first and dearest friend. The air itself vibrated with his power, and the wolf, once so fearsome, howled in terror as its smouldering body began to tear apart, the chaotic energy ravaging it from the inside. Through gritted teeth the furious immortal hissed. "What did you do.... WHAT DID YOU DO!"

But then, as the timber wolf writhed, Discord’s gaze fell upon Fluttershy’s still form. Her glazed, lifeless eyes seemed to pierce through his fury, and the draconequus froze, shuddering as if struck. The rage that had twisted his features softened in an instant, his body trembling with a pain far greater than the beast's torment. "No... no, you're right," Discord muttered as if he had heard her speak, his voice barely above a whisper. It was as if Fluttershy’s calming presence still lingered, even in death, guiding him to be a better being. He clenched his fist, the raw chaos swirling around him stalling in midair.

The timber wolf whimpered, its twisted, rotting body struggling to reform under Discord's overwhelming power, as the draconequus simply stepped forward. With a single, almost tender motion, he tapped the creature’s head with his talon. In that instant, the tortured beast collapsed into a pile of lifeless twigs, its life force dissipating as if it had never been. The tension in the air evaporated, leaving only the broken silence of a world without Fluttershy.

In the days following Fluttershy's tragic slaughter, Twilight found herself confronted with a series of decisions that weighed heavily on her heart. Ponyville’s lawyers, Quill Scratch and Civic Statute, had been in touch, delivering Fluttershy’s last will and testament with quiet professionalism. The contents were simple yet profound in their unselfishness, just as Fluttershy had always been. Her few possessions and savings were to be liquidated and placed in a trust fund dedicated solely to the care of the animals she’d cherished so deeply at the sanctuary she'd poured her heart into. That part, at least, was easy for Twilight to accept, a fitting legacy for her kindhearted friend.

But it was Fluttershy’s final request that troubled Twilight in ways she struggled to explain, even to herself. The words of the will still echoed in her mind: Fluttershy had asked for an air burial, a practice so rare it bordered on the archaic, something almost unheard of in modern Equestria. Her wish was that her body would be left to nourish the creatures of the Everfree Forest, allowing nature to reclaim her. She had specified, in the most gentle yet firm terms, that no record of the location should ever be made. She wished that her final resting place was to remain unknown to all.

Twilight had wrestled with this decision more than any other, feeling an inexplicable unease. The idea of her dear friend’s body being left to the mercies of scavengers, all but her skeleton to slowly disappear into the wild, untamed woods, was something that made her shudder every time she thought about it. She remembered sitting alone with the will in her hooves, her mind filled with a million protests that she couldn’t quite voice.

But Fluttershy’s final wish captured so much of her quiet but resolute independence. Fluttershy had always chosen to live just outside Ponyville, nestled in her cottage at the edge of the forest, removed from the bustle and oversight of the town itself. She was close enough to be a part of the community, yet deliberately kept her distance, as if to remind herself—and perhaps others—that she valued her own space, her own way of living. She never sought permission or validation for her decisions, preferring instead to live according to her own code, a code that most ponies rarely even noticed because of her gentle manner.

Fluttershy’s friendship with Discord had been another testament to her quiet rebellion against expectation. She had befriended him despite the distrust and outright disapproval that others showed, willing to look past what society deemed monstrous and wrong. Where other ponies would have urged caution or cut ties altogether, Fluttershy stood firm, seeing in Discord something worth loving, something worth nurturing. In her understated way, she had pushed the boundaries of Ponyville’s social fabric, offering friendship and forgiveness to those many would never consider.

Despite possessing a beauty that was almost ethereal, Fluttershy had never found a partner. Her silky mane and lovely voice had won many admirers, but she'd never formed an attachments to any pony. She'd never foaled, despite being a surrogate to so many creatures.

And now, in death, Fluttershy had one last statement to make. She had rejected all aspects of Equestria’s conventional farewells. No ornate casket, no somber line of mourners. Instead, she wanted her remains to be given back to nature in the deepest part of the Everfree, the place she had always felt called to, where she had spent her life nurturing its creatures. Twilight understood that this choice was entirely, unmistakably Fluttershy: an unspoken rejection of ceremony in favor of freedom, a return to the earth as quietly and firmly as she had always walked upon it. It wasn’t that Fluttershy was disrespectful of tradition—she simply had her own vision of peace, one that bowed to no rule but her own.

So, with a heart full of sorrow and a mind clouded with doubt, Twilight had followed through with her friend’s wishes. She had summoned a full regiment of the royal sentries—her finest soldiers—to form an honour guard to carry Fluttershy’s body into the depths of the Everfree Forest. Their orders had been clear but difficult to issue: find a remote, unmarked place and leave her there, where no pony could ever find her remains. No tomb, no gravestone, no memorial site to visit. Just the wild wood, where her body could feed the circle of life she had always so selflessly nurtured. The soldiers had followed the order, a final escort that bore and then respectfully unwrapped Fluttershy's corpse from the shroud they had transported it in, so that the process of her consumption could start unhindered.

Even years later, the mental image haunted Twilight. She had seen many forms of death, had made peace with the loss of all her friends, but the thought of Fluttershy’s choice to be consumed by the creatures she had once protected, filled her with a quiet horror. Despite all the wisdom and power she had gained, this was something she could not quite reconcile. The thoughts clung to her like a cold shadow, a part of her unable to let go of the painful understanding that her friend had chosen a fate so far removed from the peaceful existence they had all known. That in some shaded grove of the forest there was a discarded skull, picked clean but for some shreds of pink mane still clinging to the moss covered bone.

When it's time to leave

It was at that meeting with Luster Dawn and her friends that Twilight had first noticed something different. Canterlot Castle was draughty but it wasn't really cold that day, yet Rarity had arrived wearing a thick coat. At first, Twilight thought little of it—after all, if there was anypony who could make a coat look fashionable in mild weather, it was Rarity. She would’ve worn a bikini in a snowdrift if she deemed it “fabulous, darling,” and today, the grand old mare did indeed look fabulous.

But as the conversation flowed and laughter filled the room, Twilight couldn't help but notice that Rarity never took the coat off. Not even when the sun beamed through the huge windows or when the discussion became more animated. There was something else too—an unfamiliar tiredness in her friend’s eyes, barely visible behind expertly applied makeup. Twilight had seen it before in her own mirror, after sleepless nights or long, stressful days, but seeing it on Rarity was jarring.

As the gathering came to an end, Twilight walked over to her friend, intending to make a playful remark about the coat. But as she approached, Rarity’s smile faltered, just for a moment. Twilight decided against making any comment, feeling a subtle unease creep up on her.

Twilight didn’t have to wait long to get her answer. A few weeks after that initial gathering, Rarity had come to the castle for lunch, looking as composed and stylish as ever. Twilight had been pouring some of Equestria's finest tea into a delicate service set—one older than Ponyville itself—when Rarity casually dropped the news that would shake her to her core.

Her clipped tone cut across Twilight's concentration as she steeped the tea leaves. “I'm dying.”

Twilight chuckled, glancing up to scold her friend. “Oh Rarity. I know this blend takes a little longer to brew than most teas, but I promise the wait won't kill you and it will be worth it!”

"No, really…I’m dying, darling," Rarity replied, almost flippantly, as though commenting on the weather.

Twilight’s hooves fumbled, and it was only by some quick levitating reflexes on Rarity's part that the ancient crockery was saved from smashing onto the floor. The tea, however, spilled across the immaculate rug, leaving a dark stain that no amount of magic or scrubbing ever fully removed.

“Wh-what?” Twilight stammered, her throat tight as she struggled to comprehend the words.

Rarity, affecting an air of boredom, simply repeated it, as if it were nothing more than a passing remark. “I’m dying, darling. I have incurable cancer. I didn’t want to make a fuss, it’s just one of those things. Hardly worth crying over.”

Thunderstruck, Twilight felt her words choke in her throat. The tense silence that followed was broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock in her chambers. The sound seemed to magnify, each tick slicing through her, as she sat there, unable to respond.

Rarity, calm and collected as ever, sipped what remained of her tea delicately. She didn’t rush Twilight, giving her time to process the shocking revelation, waiting with an almost serene patience for her old friend to gather her composure. It was as if she had already made peace with it, but Twilight could hardly believe her ears. Rarity, who always revelled in the drama of life, was brushing off something so monumental with a glib wave of her hoof. The casualness in Rarity’s tone only made the weight of the revelation feel more surreal, like some twisted joke.

Her voice trembling, Twilight tried to strung a question together. “How… how long have you known?”

“Oh, darling, it’s been a number of years now,” Rarity replied lightly, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. “But it’s getting to the point where I can’t hide it much longer. That coat I’ve been wearing? Not just a fashion statement, I’m afraid.”

Twilight’s shock turned into something sharper. From nowhere, anger bubbled up inside her, hot and fast. How could Rarity, her friend for so long, have concealed this for years? How could she have gone through this without telling anyone? Twilight felt a knot of betrayal tighten in her chest as she stood abruptly, her wings half-flaring with agitation.

“What treatment are you having?” Twilight asked, her voice clipped, as if that would solve everything.

Rarity gave a small, measured sigh, as if Twilight had asked something dreadfully tedious. “Spells, mostly. Some charms. They've slowed it down, but it’s always only been a matter of time.”

Twilight began pacing, her mind racing with possibilities, desperately grasping for something, anything, that could be done. "There must be something more. There has to be something—" she insisted, her voice rising with urgency.

Rarity held up a hoof to stop her. "Oh, the doctors did mention something. A treatment, yes. It could give me a few more years, perhaps. But it would cost me my mane and tail,” she said, with a rueful smile. “And it wouldn’t be a pleasant few years, darling. Quite painful, actually."

Twilight, her heart pounding, stopped in her tracks. “When are you going to start it?”

Rarity’s eyes softened, and she shook her head. “I’m not.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and Twilight felt the floor tilt beneath her. She struggled to find her footing in the conversation, to grasp the full magnitude of what Rarity was saying.

Twilight stammered, her mind scrambling to keep pace with the shocking revelation. She demanded, her voice almost breaking, “Why wouldn’t you do it? Why wouldn’t you at least try the treatment?”

Rarity shrugged, a graceful but weary motion, and said with a bitter smile, “Perhaps it’s my vanity, darling, but I want to finish my days looking fabulous. You know me. I wouldn’t be Rarity without a little glamour.”

“That’s not a good enough reason!” Twilight protested, her voice rising with desperation. “You can’t just—”

Rarity cut her off, her tone soft but unyielding. “It’s not just that, Twilight. I don’t want to die a miserable, pain-ridden husk. That’s not how I want to go.” She paused, her expression unreadable. In the silence that followed, the only sound in the room was again the ticking of the old clock.

Twilight’s cheeks were suddenly damp with tears. She hadn’t even realised she was crying until the moisture blurred her vision. She started to speak, to argue, to beg, but every sentence she tried to form fell apart before it left her lips. Rarity’s words had struck at the heart of something Twilight wasn’t ready to face, and the truth of it twisted inside her.

“I don’t want to wither away,” Rarity continued quietly, her voice as delicate as the finest silk, “and even without the treatment, my future will still be laced with pain.” Her gaze met Twilight’s, calm but determined. “And that’s why I’m here.”

Twilight blinked, confusion flickering across her face. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Rarity took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I want you to help me die, Twilight.”

The words were like a punch to the gut, stealing Twilight’s breath. Her whole body tensed as she stared at her friend, unable to comprehend what had just been asked of her. She stared at her friend, her wings flaring in shock. “Rarity, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m totally serious,” Rarity replied, with a sad but firm smile. Leaning forward, she gazed earnestly at her alicorn friend. “I’ve been reading about assisted deaths, darling. It’s not something I came to lightly, not when there are still so many talented stallions in Equestria. No, no, no. I’m at peace with the idea of ending my existence, but…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “I lack the fortitude to carry out the deed myself. Or perhaps I’m not desperate enough yet. But I don’t want to wait until I’m beyond the point of being able to make that choice.”

Twilight’s stomach churned, a wave of nausea rising inside her as she forced herself to ask, “What exactly are you asking for, Rarity? What do you want from me?”

Rarity’s expression softened, her eyes pleading. “With your deep knowledge of magic and potions... surely there’s something you could use. Something painless. Something that would maybe take me by surprise. I don’t want to suffer. I just want it to be peaceful and maybe a little unpredictable.”

Twilight began pacing, her mind racing with possibilities. There were spells in the forbidden section of the Canterlot archives, dark curses that might do what Rarity was asking. For a moment, the intellectual part of her was curious, trying to figure out if such a thing could exist. But then she stopped, as a deep, gnawing guilt sank in. Her conscience overtook her thoughts.

She turned away from her friend, staring at the floor. “I can’t help you, Rarity,” Twilight whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’d do anything for you. Anything. But not that.”

Rarity’s gaze stayed steady, but the sadness in her eyes deepened. She nodded, slowly. “I feared you might say that.” A silence hung heavy in the air between them, both knowing there was no simple resolution to what had just been asked.

Twilight’s heart raced as the words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Why would you think I could do this after what happened with Pinkie?!”

Rarity’s expression shifted instantly, her face tightening with indignation. “Twilight, this is nothing like poor Pinkie Pie.” She said it firmly, her voice rising as she denied the comparison. “That was... that was a tragedy. Pinkie was suffering, yes, but this—this is not the same thing.”

Twilight could hardly breathe, her chest tightening in disbelief. “Not the same? You’re talking about cutting your days short, just like she did!”

“No,” Rarity replied vehemently, leaning forward, her eyes burning with conviction. “Pinkie’s death was...” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Pinkie was overwhelmed, consumed by something none of us could fully understand. Her decision came from a place of desperation. What I’m asking, Twilight, is different. This isn’t about running away from life—it’s about choosing to exit before life becomes unbearable. Before the pain takes away everything that makes me who I am.”

Twilight shuddered, a mix of disgust and sorrow swirling within her. “That feels like a pretty thin distinction,” she murmured, her voice trembling.

Rarity’s eyes softened, her features losing some of their sharpness. “It might sound that way to you. But from where I’m sitting, Twilight, it doesn’t feel so black and white.” Her voice, though steady, carried the weight of experience—the understanding that not everypony shared Twilight’s clear-cut view of life and death. “I want control over my end. I want to leave this world on my terms, with grace. Not to fade into a shadow of the mare I once was, bedridden and broken.”

Twilight’s hooves trembled as she stood rooted to the spot, unable to respond. This wasn’t the Rarity she’d known—the glamorous, self-assured mare who had conquered the world of fashion. And yet, in a heartbreaking way, it was. The same Rarity who refused to let life’s cruelties dictate her fate.

Twilight shook her head, her heart pounding in her chest as she wrestled with the enormity of what Rarity was asking. “I’ve fought in battles, faced monsters, and I’ve never... I’ve never killed anypony.”

Rarity’s eyes glistened, her composed exterior cracking just enough to reveal the emotion simmering beneath. “Twilight,” she whispered softly, her voice a tender plea. “I’m not asking you to murder anypony. I’m asking you to help a friend in need.”

Twilight’s wings coiled tightly against her sides, her whole body shivering as though she were caught in the grip of an icy storm. The thought of what Rarity was requesting filled her with a kind of cold that penetrated deeper than any battle or hardship she had ever faced. “I... I can’t,” she finally stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Rarity, but I just... I just can’t do this.”

Rarity sighed softly, her expression growing distant, her smile brittle. “I understand, darling. I do.” Her voice was calm, but Twilight could see the hurt behind those glistening blue eyes. With a half-hearted chuckle, Rarity glanced down at the table. “Well,” she murmured with forced cheerfulness, “at least I don’t have to worry about these pastries ending up on my haunches anymore, hmm?”

Twilight’s breath caught in her throat, disbelief washing over her as her friend made a joke at a time like this. It was so very Rarity, always deflecting with elegance, even now. With a flick of her horn, Twilight pushed the tray of pastries across the table, watching Rarity’s delicate magic lift one. It felt so surreal, this moment between them, so normal and yet so utterly devastating.

Twilight broke the silence, her voice quieter now, almost tentative. “How do you plan to tell the others? Our friends, I mean.”

Rarity paused, her magic holding the pastry halfway to her mouth, before lowering it back to the plate. She met Twilight’s gaze with a sad smile, her eyes full of a resigned wisdom. “I hadn’t quite gotten that far,” she admitted, her voice soft but steady. “I didn’t want to burden them before I had to. Not yet.” She sighed, leaning back in her chair, the weight of her decision pressing visibly on her slender shoulders. “But I will, Twilight. They deserve to know. Just... not today.”

In the dim confines of Zecora’s hut, warmth and earthy scents mingled with the cool shadows cast by the thin beams of autumn sunlight streaming through cracks in the walls. Bundles of herbs and roots hung from the rafters, their silhouettes dancing across the rustic walls as an elderly zebra moved with grace around them. Zecora’s smiled contentedly as she stirred a small cauldron, steam wafting up with hints of fennel and dried sage. As she lifted a ladle to inspect the brew’s thickness, a sudden, brilliant flash of violet light filled the room.

When her vision cleared, Zecora saw the imposing yet familiar figure of Princess Twilight Sparkle towering over her. The alicorn’s gaze held a fierce determination, softened only by a trace of something Zecora recognized: sorrow. With an understanding smile, Zecora inclined her head and offered a gentle smile, welcoming her royal guest in her familiar rhyming cadence:

"Welcome, Princess, to my humble home, rare are the days you visit alone."

The zebra gestured to a low seat, inviting Twilight to rest. The alicorn princess stood stiffly, her wings pressed close to her sides, the hard look in her eyes making it clear this was anything but a social call.

Twilight inhaled deeply, steadying herself as she fixed Zecora with a sombre gaze. “I’m here because I have some questions, Zecora.” Her voice, though steady, carried the raw edge of heartbreak, and Zecora’s expression softened.

The zebra nodded knowingly, her wise eyes searching Twilight’s face. "If it's for answers you look, I shall be an open book," she said, her voice calm and welcoming, though carrying the weight of understanding.

Twilight’s magic flickered briefly, and with a faint pop, a small earthenware flask appeared between them. Although making it appear from thin air was intended to be a show of power, Twilight had quietly placed it in a nearby clearing meaning she only had to teleport it a short distance. Holding it out, Twilight asked, “Is this yours?”

Zecora’s mouth twitched into a sad smile, and she nodded. “I spy a potion of mine that you have there, so a friend's last moments were chosen with care. A final design, for those passing through night; a choice made with courage, to turn from the fight.”

Twilight’s grip on the flask tightened until it cracked under the pressure. She took a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of Zecora’s words settle over her. She’d suspected it—had feared it, really—but hearing it confirmed in Zecora’s calm, rhyming cadence made the reality all the more difficult to bear.

Twilight had been shocked when the news of Rarity’s sudden death reached her in Canterlot. Shocked but, in a way, not surprised. To every other pony, it must have seemed as though the fashionista’s life had been cut short unexpectedly. Rarity had exuded a fierce vitality that disguised her years; she had, after all, hidden her condition with admirable determination. But Twilight, though saddened, could not shake the suspicion that there was more to this than met the eye.

Without delay, she decided to make the short trip to Ponyville. Even with properties in Manehattan and Canterlot, Rarity had kept the Carousel Boutique as her residence, a decision as steadfast as her loyalty to her friends. The boutique was where Rarity had passed. Though a part of her hesitated to invade the privacy of her friend’s shop to investigate her final moments, another part wanted to see if any signs hinted at the unusual nature of Rarity’s demise.

Upon arriving in Ponyville, she made her way to the town hall. It was a crisp, quiet morning, the streets noticeably quiet. Leaving her royal entourage in the care of the aides working in the town hall, Twilight proceeded up the stairs to the mayor’s office. As she climbed, she passed old photos of past celebrations and festivals where she and her friends had laughed together, images of another time. Yet it was Rarity’s face that seemed to stand out to her in each of them, all glamour and poise, each expression filled with warmth or gentle amusement. She wondered how many ponies had truly known the fierce independence behind that polished exterior, and she felt a pang of regret that perhaps she hadn’t known it as well as she thought she had.

The mayor’s office, a cosy, dust-laden room that still bore traces of Mayor Mare’s long service, seemed much the same as Twilight remembered, though the pony standing behind the desk was new. Diamond Tiara, now a grown mare with an air of authority and polish that only somewhat concealed her nervousness, rose to greet the princess. “Princess Twilight,” she said warmly, inclining her head, “it’s an honour to have you here.” Her voice softened as she continued, “Please accept my deepest condolences. Rarity’s passing… it was such a shock for all of us.”

Twilight returned her greeting with a gentle smile, gratitude and warmth in her expression. “Thank you, Mayor Tiara. You’ve done a commendable job as Ponyville’s leader. The town is lucky to have you.” At that, Diamond Tiara dipped her head modestly, acknowledging the compliment with a quiet “thank you,” but a flicker of curiosity passed over her face.

The moment lingered, a faint hush falling over the room, broken only by sounds from the nearby market. She shifted uneasily. “If you don’t mind me asking, Your Highness… to what do we owe the honour of this visit?” Her voice held a note of both respect and apprehension, as if she feared overstepping her place.

Twilight took a deep breath, her calm, friendly demeanour slipping into the firmness of a princess’s authority. “I’ll be paying a visit to the Carousel Boutique,” she replied with quiet resolve, the unmovable weight of her words filling the air. Diamond Tiara blinked, surprise flashing in her eyes before she recovered, her mouth slightly ajar as she processed Twilight’s intentions.

“May I ask, Princess, what this visit is about?” the mayor ventured hesitantly. Twilight’s expression grew serious, her tone turning steely. “I’m afraid it’s a confidential matter,” she answered, meeting the mayor’s gaze steadily. “I’ll be making the visit alone.”

Visibly taken aback, Diamond Tiara gathered herself, hiding her own unsettled thoughts with a respectful nod. “Of course, Your Highness,” she said, her voice faintly wavering despite her best efforts. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for you.” She seemed to be mentally scanning the list of duties and protocols her office should perform for such an occasion.

Twilight gave a soft shake of her head. “There’s no need for any formalities,” she said gently. “I know where the boutique is. I’ll handle things myself.”

The mayor hesitated but nodded, swallowing the questions still lurking in her mind. “As you wish, Princess Twilight,” she replied with quiet respect, watching as Twilight turned toward the door, the purpose in her stride as unyielding as her composure.

The workshop held a quiet sense of completion, a stark contrast to the usual energy and scattered remnants of creativity that Rarity often left behind in her wake. Though a few sketches and swatches of fabric lay strewn across the tables, indicating ideas she hadn’t quite finished exploring, most of her designs seemed to have reached a state of completion. Garments hung neatly on racks, delicate folds draped just so, waiting patiently for the clients she would no longer see.

Twilight glanced around, taking in the space with a pang of bittersweet admiration. It was clear that Rarity, ever the consummate professional, had ensured that her clients’ needs were met, leaving almost no loose ends—even as her own life neared its end. The boutique was both a testament to her meticulous dedication and, perhaps, a sign that she’d known exactly what was coming.

The alicorn reached for a delicate teacup on a cluttered side table, lifting it as if handling a fragile memory or maybe a reverie of tea parties never to be. Behind the tea service Twilight’s eyes caught sight of a small, plain earthenware bottle, nestled among some scraps of material. Her heart gave a painful jolt as she carefully lifted the small vessel that seemed so out of place in the elegant furnishings of the workshop.

Twilight frowned as she held it up, her magical aura turning it over. The bottle was simple but unmistakably crafted with skill, marked by the faint etchings of Zecora's distinctive style. It looked glaringly out of place, its earthen tones a sharp contrast to the boutique's confident palette. A deep chill settled over her as she turned the empty bottle in her hooves, trying to shake the terrible thought that was forming in her mind.

In her mind, scenes flickered—a final meeting over tea, Rarity’s words weighed down with weariness and grim acceptance. Twilight remembered the last conversation they'd had, the refusal to endure a future of pain. And now, holding the bottle, that conversation seemed to echo around her. Rarity’s decision… could this be what Twilight had refused to help her do? Twilight tightened her grip on the bottle, feeling the unmistakable weight of something left unsaid.

A dull ache settled in her chest as she stood alone in the stillness of the boutique, the bottle cold in her hooves, its presence like an unspoken question echoing around the silent room. She couldn't deny her need for answers, and knew what her next stop needed to be.

Twilight’s voice trembled as she broke the silence, her eyes locked on the zebra. “How could you do it, Zecora? You’re a healer—how could you agree to something like that?”

Zecora sighed deeply, her expression softened by years of wisdom and the weight of Twilight’s question. She set her ladle aside, her gaze steady as she regarded the princess. "Ah, Princess Twilight, there is much you don't see; helping others sometimes means letting them be free," she said, her tone as tender as it was resolute.

Twilight’s jaw tightened, frustration and sorrow mingling in her eyes. “But... ending her life?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “How is that helping?”

Zecora met Twilight’s gaze with quiet understanding, and her voice too dropped to a near whisper, holding an earnestness that spoke to hard-won experience. “Helping another may bring us dismay, but respect for their wishes cannot be swept away.” She paused, allowing her words to sink in. “Sometimes, dear Twilight, to help in their need, we must bear the pain and let them be freed.”

Twilight sat at her balcony, surrounded by sharp sunlight that shot shards of light across the familiar, towering stacks of books and scrolls in the room behind her. The bittersweet smile that graced her lips was fleeting, a fragile moment of warmth amidst the lingering ache of loss. Rarity, in her typical, perfectionist fashion, had left behind an intricate tapestry of plans for after her passing. It was so utterly her, Twilight mused—so consistent with the unicorn who had never settled for anything less than the dazzlingly extraordinary.

Rarity’s final wish had been both delicate and grand: her body would undergo a long, painstaking alchemical refinement, resulting in three flawless sapphires. They shimmered now in Twilight’s memory, glinting like ice-blue stars. Each sapphire had been carefully cut, polished, and placed within the last piece of wearable art that Rarity would ever “design.” It was a headband, elegant and understated yet refined, featured as the star of her posthumous fashion show.

The whole affair left a unique impact on those close to Rarity, none more so than Spike. For weeks after, he had recoiled at even the sight of his usual gem snacks, the guilt and grief tangling together until the idea of indulging felt impossible. Twilight’s heart ached for him, for his own brand of sorrow that had taken such a peculiar shape.

The show was nothing short of breathtaking. Models adorned in Rarity’s final designs flowed down the runway with the grace and poise that she had cultivated in each of them, even from afar. Every ensemble shimmered, each piece polished to perfection, capturing Equestria’s attention in a way that was pure Rarity—bold yet refined, unforgettable yet timeless. For weeks after, the glossy magazines devoted spread after spread to the collection, a cascade of images immortalising Rarity’s unparalleled vision.

In her will, Rarity had left one last gift, turning her fashion empire into a cooperative owned by the very ponies who had brought her creations to life. Overnight, her employees became owners, a generous legacy that both surprised and uplifted them. With the collection’s success, they had time to come to terms with their own sudden wealth as well as the void left by their beloved figurehead. Rarity had ensured they could carry on, her reputation sparkling as brightly as the gemstones she so adored.

Only one final detail was left to be fixed, the jewels at the heart of her legacy. Rarity’s headband—her last and perhaps most personal creation, containing the refined essence of her mortal remains—was donated to the prestigious Maretropolitan Museum of Art. There, it stood as a symbol of her life and spirit, admired daily by hundreds, if not thousands, of ponies who marvelled at the craftsmanship, perhaps unaware of the bittersweet alchemy that bound its beauty. It was, without a doubt, a fitting tribute to the unicorn who had lived as no other: boldly, generously, and with beauty that was more than just skin deep.

The end of the rainbow

Twilight wandered listlessly back into her study, her hooves dragging with the weight of sorrow. The room felt colder, emptier, as her gaze fell on the parchment that lay mocking her from the desk. The carefully penned words, written with such painstaking effort, seemed hollow in the silence of the room. She had rewritten the speech countless times, yet nothing she could say felt right—nothing could convey the depth of the loss that haunted her. Each revision was a futile attempt to give voice to the agony that swirled in her heart, to make sense of the unbearable weight of memory.

Twilight’s heart swelled with warmth and sorrow as her memories turned to Rainbow Dash, the brash and fearless Pegasus who had filled her life with so much joy. It wasn’t just Rainbow’s daring exploits, her bravado, or even her loyalty that came to mind, but the quiet moments of love and devotion she had shared with her wife. The two had built a life together that was nothing short of legendary in its own right—a love story that had weathered countless storms, both literal and figurative.

Twilight often found herself smiling at the memories of seeing them together, their playful banter and the unmistakable sparkle in Rainbow's eyes whenever she was near her earth-pony spouse. Their bond had always seemed unbreakable, a perfect balance of strength and tenderness. It was one of the great joys of Twilight’s life to witness the happiness that blossomed between them, a love so strong it seemed almost untouched by time.

Rainbow Dash and Applejack had filled their farm with the sounds of life and laughter, their home brimming with the joyful chaos of foals. Though they could not have children of their own, their love for one another had driven them to adopt many and foster countless others, providing a safe and nurturing home for any young pony in need. Their maternal instincts, so strong and unwavering, had created a haven at Sweet Apple Acres where the orchard echoed with the patter of tiny hooves, playful giggles, and the warm embrace of family. Together, they had built a legacy of love, ensuring that their home would always be filled with the boundless energy and happiness of the foals they cherished so deeply.

But time, as Twilight had knew all too well, spares no mortal pony. In Rainbow Dash’s latter years, the toll of age had begun to make its cruel, inexorable mark on the once indomitable Wonderbolt. The signs had been subtle at first—a decrease of athleticism, moments where Rainbow’s memory would falter, and that her vibrant rainbow mane started becoming streaked with grey. Twilight had seen it happen gradually, like watching the sunset—melancholy but inevitable.

The mental decline had been the hardest to bear, both for Rainbow Dash and those who loved her. Twilight had watched as her friend's sharp mind had started to falter, moments of confusion replacing the cocky confidence that once defined her. At first, it had been subtle—a forgotten detail here, a misremembered event there—but over time, the signs of mental decline had become undeniable. There were days when Rainbow's memory seemed to slip through her hooves like grains of sand, and other days when she stared blankly into the distance, lost in a fog only she could see. Each passing day seemed to pull her further away from the mare she had once been, leaving behind a ghost of the fearless friend they all knew.

For Twilight, it was agonising to watch Rainbow Dash’s proud spirit dim, her sharp wit replaced by uncertainty and fear. No battle, no enemy could have prepared her for this slow, inevitable fading. It had hurt in a way that no villain or crisis ever could. She’d always push herself, never wanting to admit that time was catching up to her, but it was clear to those closest to her that Rainbow was slipping away. And perhaps the hardest to witness had been her pride—a part of her that had never dimmed—clashing with the painful realities of her age. Rainbow Dash was never one to admit weakness, and Twilight knew it had torn her friend apart to accept that she wasn’t the pegasus she used to be.

And yet, even as the years wore on, there was still that spark. Even in her twilight years, Rainbow had been full of life, as if her very presence could defy time itself. When her mind would slip, her body would fail, or her wings would falter, her love for Applejack and her family never wavered. It was as if that love was the one thing even time couldn’t touch, a reminder to Twilight of just how deeply her friend had lived and loved.

Her eventual passing was not just painful—it was a nightmare retold in every harrowing detail by Applejack, who had been forced to watch it unfold. Twilight could still feel the shock as Applejack's voice had trembled, recounting every moment, every sound, every cry. The memory clung to Twilight like a heavy cloak, a constant reminder that no tribute, no matter how perfect, could ever soothe the pain or bring comfort to the heartache of losing such a dear friend.

Rainbow Dash's death had come during what should have been a joyous occasion. She and Applejack had been visiting the farmstead of one of their many grandfoals, eager to meet the newest additions to their ever-growing family—their great-grandfoals. The excitement had been palpable, and Rainbow, though her body was beginning to slow with age, had radiated her usual exuberance, talking nonstop about how she would tell stories to the little ones and maybe even show them a trick or two. Applejack had smiled warmly, knowing that no matter how tired or frail Rainbow might become, that spark of boundless joy in her adopted offspring and their foals would never dim.

The journey had been a long one, out past Appaloosa, through dusty, sun-baked lands that stretched for miles. By the time they arrived, both Applejack and Rainbow Dash were utterly spent, the distance they had covered by train and coach wearing down on them more than it ever had before. It had been hard for Applejack to admit—harder still for Rainbow—but age was catching up with them both, and even such a simple journey was now an exhausting endeavour. Still, despite the weariness, the joy of meeting their family had pushed them on, giving them the strength to savour the precious moments together. Little did they know that it would be one of the last happy memories they would share.

Rainbow Dash had arrived at the farmstead with a saddlebag brimming with excitement. Among the things she'd packed were some of her favourite Daring-Do books, well-worn and dog-eared from countless re-readings. She had been talking for days about how she couldn't wait to read them to the little ones, her eyes lighting up as she imagined their reactions to the daring adventures and nail-biting escapes. Even though her own adventuring days were behind her, she could still share those thrilling stories, passing down her love for adventure to a new generation.

Applejack, ever thoughtful, had packed a basket full of freshly made candy apples, lovingly wrapped and nestled into the bottom of her saddlebag. She’d joked with Rainbow that they needed to keep up the tradition of spoiling their grandfoals and now great-grandfoals, just like they had with the many foals they’d raised themselves even if those grandfoals were fully grown now. Rainbow had chuckled in agreement, promising that she'd slip them a little extra candy before bedtime while Applejack pretended to scold her for it. The warmth between them, that shared joy in family, had made the journey worth every ache and fatigue.

Little did either of them know, those candy apples and the Daring-Do books would never get their intended audience. The joy and anticipation that filled their hearts would soon be eclipsed by tragedy.

As the wagon creaked along the final stretch toward the small holding, Rainbow Dash’s sharp eyes flicked toward the sky with a deepening frown. Over the plains beyond the nearby township, thick, pendulous clouds loomed ominously, and the gusting winds tore across the landscape with increasing fury as a team of pegasi flitted about like dots in the sky. The old weatherpony’s sharp eyes and instincts, honed over years of reading the weather with pinpoint accuracy, kicked in as she muttered under her breath. "That formation's sloppy... the team needs to tighten up before those fronts get away from them... horizontal shear’s already setting in to make a supercell." The words flowed out in the low tone of a seasoned expert who knew when trouble was brewing.

Lightning flashed in the distance, and Applejack cast a worried glance at her wife, knowing Rainbow’s gut instincts about weather were rarely wrong. She had learned long ago to tell the difference between idle weather talk and when Rainbow’s concerns were serious. Today, there was a sharpness to her muttering that pricked Applejack’s own sense of urgency. "Wagoneer!" Applejack called out, waving her hoof forward. "We gotta pick up the pace. Ain't no time to dawdle!" The heavy-set stallion pulling the wagon nodded and rallied his team, urging the coach to move faster.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the property, the storm was catching up with them. The moment the family spotted the wagon coming they had rushed out from the fields and orchards to greet their elders. It was supposed to be a day of celebration—an introduction to the next generation, the beginning of new stories, and a continuation of their legacy. But as the family gathered under the savagely violent clouds a sense of foreboding gnawed at Applejack’s heart. Something was terribly wrong.

Suddenly the storm was upon them. Rain started to pelt down in heavy sheets, and the sky groaned under the weight of the tempest. Hailstones began bouncing off the wagon, the sound a sharp staccato against the wood as Rainbow’s eyes grew even more focused. Despite the worsening conditions, Great-grandfoals, grandfoals, and their spouses all struggled through the pounding rain and violent winds with mud sucking at their hooves and the storm clouds churning overhead, eager to usher their elderly kin in from the storm to the warmth and safety of the farmhouse.

With the icy authority of a many-times-decorated Wonderbolts commander, Rainbow Dash’s expression hardened. Her once easygoing smile vanished, replaced by the sharp focus she’d worn in her prime. Without taking her eyes off the sky, she reached across the seat and grasped Applejack’s hooves with her own, the strength of her grip belying her years. In no uncertain terms, she spoke with the voice of a leader who had faced the impossible more times than she could count.

“Gather our family together. Get them into the root cellar as fast as you can,” she ordered. Her tone left no room for debate, no hesitation. The air crackled with more than just the approaching storm.

Applejack blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in Rainbow’s demeanour. They had been through so much together—decades of love, adventure, and loss. But hearing that voice, one Rainbow hadn’t used in years, sent a chill down Applejack’s spine that no storm could match.

“What... what are ya doin’?” Applejack called after her, her voice trembling with concern as Rainbow Dash shifted in her seat, her joints protesting as she rose. Despite the years that had passed, there was something unmistakably powerful in the way Rainbow moved, her old instincts kicking in as though time hadn’t touched her.

Rainbow turned, her magenta eyes hard and determined. But there was a softness too—a quiet resignation. She glanced toward the dark funnel cloud that was bearing down on the farm, the tornado swirling with a fury that would have overwhelmed a lesser pony with fear. For Rainbow Dash, there was no fear. Only duty.

“I’m buying us some time,” she said simply.

The words hit Applejack like a hammer. She knew what her wife meant, even if every fibre of her being wanted to scream, to stop her, to pull her back into the safety of the family. But Rainbow’s eyes—those eyes that had seen a thousand storms and braved every one of them—made it clear that this was a decision that couldn’t be undone.

The wagon creaked and groaned as two ponies acted in unison—one launching into the sky with a speed that defied her age, the other bolting down the path towards their family, who were huddled together, lashed by the fury of the storm.

Applejack didn’t think, didn’t pause. She scooped two of the youngest foals onto her broad flank, and with the force of a mare who had worked the land her entire life, she leapt over fences like a champion racer, her heart pounding in her chest. There wasn’t time to take the winding path that snaked through the trees. Instead, she charged straight through, dodging the whipping branches and bending trunks as the wind howled around them.

As she neared the farmhouse, a deafening crack split the air. Applejack’s eyes snapped to the sound just in time to see one of the fruit trees splinter under the force of the gale, toppling directly into their path. The massive tree crashed down, blocking their way, the sound reverberating through the storm.

With no other choice and no time to waste, Applejack skidded to a stop in the clinging mud. Her muscles burned, her lungs ached, but she wasn’t about to let a fallen tree stop her. She braced herself, ignoring the sharp sting in her joints, and delivered a mighty buck to the trunk. The heavy wood shifted, and with a second, desperate kick, she sent the tree rolling clear. She would feel that in every bone for days to come, but adrenaline—spurred by her love for Rainbow Dash and their family—was drowning out the pain.

“Keep movin’!” she shouted, pushing the ponies onward as they scrambled to follow her.

The rain was slamming into the ground like a waterfall, soaking them to the bone, but Applejack barely noticed as she sprinted the last stretch toward the farmhouse her heart pounding in her chest and the blood rushing in her ears. The wind roared like a freight train as it ripped through the orchard, and overhead the sky was a boiling mass of dark clouds. The familiar landscape of the farm had become a battlefield.

When they finally reached the farmhouse, the ponies there were already holding the cellar doors open against the raging storm. Applejack, dripping wet and panting with exertion, ushered her family inside with a voice that cut through the chaos.

“Hurry! Git on down there!” she urged, waving them toward the gaping cellar as the storm bore down on them.

Having delivered her family to safety, Applejack stood rooted to the spot, her gaze rising to the storm-darkened sky. The wind tugged at her mane and tail, but she ignored it. Her relatives, tears streaking their rain-soaked faces, tugged at her, trying to drag her toward the cellar. But Applejack wouldn’t budge. She dug in her hooves, her heart pounding as she watched the impossible battle unfolding above her.

Rainbow Dash was a blur of motion, spinning and kicking at the towering tornado that threatened to devour them all. The pegasus moved with a speed and precision that defied her age, her wings slicing through the wind with fierce determination leaving contrails from the violent shifts in air pressure. Every now and then, the storm-clouds parted just enough to reveal flickers of that once vibrant rainbow trail behind her. It was a ghost of the streaks she used to paint across the sky in her youth, but it was still enough to make the twisting, monstrous tornado oscillate left and right, struggling to maintain its shape as she fought it head-on.

Applejack’s heart tightened in her chest as she realised just how much Rainbow was giving, pushing herself far beyond her limits to keep the storm from overtaking them. It was a fight that no pegasus, no matter how great, could win forever. Certainly not one as old as the mare giving everything she had for the love of her family. For the briefest moment, in the middle of her impossible labours, Rainbow glanced down toward the farm. She saw that Applejack had gotten everypony to safety, the family safe in the root cellar. And for that fleeting heartbeat, everything stilled.

In that desperate moment, Rainbow Dash's eyes met Applejack's. Even from a distance, Applejack could see the exhaustion etched into her wife’s face. Her wings, once so powerful and full of life, now sagged, heavy with the rain that soaked them. Every movement seemed to take more out of her, the cold storm air whipping away her misting breath as she gasped for air. But still, Rainbow's lips curled into that same old smirk, the Tirek-may-care grin she’d worn through a thousand reckless stunts, as if to say, Don’t worry about me, AJ.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the black, swirling clouds and flying debris surged forward, swallowing Rainbow Dash whole. She disappeared into the heart of the storm, and was gone.

Having witnessed her wife being consumed by the storm, Applejack's legs finally gave way. Her strength, the indomitable force that had carried her through decades of trials, vanished in an instant. She allowed her family to drag her toward the root cellar, her hooves stumbling through the mire, eyes still fixed on the swirling tempest where Rainbow had disappeared. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them, muffling the howling wind and the furious crack of the storm.

It seemed impossibly quick. The violent fury of the tornado passed within minutes, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. The ponies in the cellar ascended cautiously, blinking as they stepped into the shockingly clear sunlight once more. The aftermath was stark—the orchards were scarred, a wide strip of devastation cut through the trees, and the farmhouse had lost chunks of its roof, shingles scattered across the land like fallen leaves. But through the wreckage and ruin, everypony had survived. The elderly matriarchs, Applejack and Rainbow Dash, had saved them all.

In the eerie stillness that followed, a desperate search party formed, combing the outskirts of the property with hearts in their throats. It didn’t take long. A scattering of cyan feathers was found tumbling in the wind across one of the outer fields, leading toward the edge of the plains. At the tip of that trail, they discovered Rainbow’s body.

Her wings were crumpled, and her neck lay twisted at an unnatural angle, broken from where she had been slammed to the ground by the full force of the storm. The tornado had claimed her, just as it had tried to claim the farm. Yet, in her final act of heroism, she had kept the family safe, giving her life to hold the storm at bay just long enough for them to escape.

Rainbow's body was brought back to Sweet Apple Acres by a detachment of Wonderbolts. Her once vibrant form, now still in her simple soldier's wooden casket, was laid to rest among the trees she had grown to love as much as any orchard worker. She was buried in the family grove, alongside Grand Pear and Granny Smith, where Applejack's parents had once exchanged their vows beneath the branches. It was a fitting resting place—among family, under the same trees that had witnessed so many beginnings and endings.

The clear spring air that day felt cruel. It was crisp and filled with the scent of fresh blossoms, their soft pink petals drifting down from the branches like confetti. The peacefulness of the day stood in stark contrast to the sorrow that hung over the gathering. The beauty of the world around them seemed almost mocking, as if nature itself had forgotten the weight of grief that the ponies carried in their hearts. Birds chirped in the distance, unaware of the life that had been lost.

Twilight Sparkle stood at the head of the gathered ponies, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she had stood in the same place years ago to officiate Rainbow and Applejack's wedding. Back then, joy and love had filled the air, the same trees sheltering a union full of hope. Now, the same vows seemed like distant echoes, replaced by the finality of death. As she had for Granny Smith and Grand Pear, Twilight spoke the words of the eulogy but even as they left her lips she felt detached, as if watching the scene from some far-off place.

She couldn't help but notice how time had marked her friends. Apple Bloom stood close by, her head bowed as she comforted her elderly sister, who was too tired to fight the grief alone. Applejack, now bent by age and sorrow, leaned heavily into her younger sister’s embrace. The years had weighed her down, her body worn from a lifetime of labour and loss. Twilight watched them and felt the ache of the centuries she had yet to endure. The inevitability of time hung over her like a set of invisible chains, growing heavier with each passing year, each loss. Though her alicorn immortality would shield her from the physical toll of time, it could do nothing to stop the emotional burden of watching those she loved slip away.

Twilight collapsed onto the simple stool in front of her desk. She’d always preferred the austerity of the backless, unpadded seat when working or studying, unlike her mentor, who favoured an opulently upholstered chair for her paperwork. Twilight sighed, screwing her eyes shut as she tried to block out the memories that pressed in on her, unbidden and relentless.

It was inevitable. Any thoughts of Rainbow Dash would bring Applejack to mind, as surely as night followed day. After confessing their love for each other, the two had been inseparable. If Twilight was truly honest, they’d been that way long before they were marefriends. In all the years Twilight had known them, Applejack and Rainbow Dash had been the closest of friends, always side by side, bickering good-naturedly or working together on something. Their bond had been so strong that it was hard to tell exactly where simple friendship ended and romance began.

Twilight’s last memory of Applejack surfaced, bringing with it a shudder of repressed bitterness, like an unwelcome nightmare rising from the depths of a dark pool. She hadn’t wanted to remember it—not that day, not the pain it dredged up. It had been Apple Bloom’s letter that set everything in motion. The now-grown Cutie Mark Crusader—though they preferred "Cutie Mark Counsellors" in their adult careers—had pleaded with Twilight to come and see her old friend one last time.

Twilight rubbed at her temple, trying to soothe the ache of those recollections. Rainbow’s sudden, heroic death had been devastating, but Applejack’s decline afterward had been a slow torture. Applejack had always been strong, reliable, the anchor of their group of friends. Yet when Rainbow was taken from her, it was as if that anchor had been dragged up from the earth, leaving Applejack adrift. And right in the middle of it was the vividly recalled last conversation with her.

No rest for the grieving

The trees were bursting with apples, the scent of the ripened fruit heavy in the air, as Twilight glided down over the familiar orchard. She landed lightly by the farmhouse, the warmth of the sun on her wings doing little to ease the tension in her chest. Glancing upwards, she spotted her guards taking a discrete formation in the clouds above, hovering like shadows. Normally, the sight would have brought a chuckle, maybe a wry smile, as both she and her guards knew who would be the first into a fight if trouble arose. But not today.

Today, Equestria’s fiercest warrior wasn’t here to defend the land, nor face an enemy she could best with magic or might. She was here on a mission of friendship and mercy, and it left her in no mood for joy. She felt none of the triumph that usually came with flying over the hills of Sweet Apple Acres, just a deepening ache in her heart.

A clattering sound from the barn broke her thoughts—fruit baskets shoved roughly, tools knocked over—so she cantered towards it. As Twilight approached, she wondered if Applejack was the one behind the commotion, though her heart tightened at the thought. What would she find on the other side of those old barn doors?

Twilight called out to her friend, her voice tentative, but loud enough to carry across the orchard. For a moment, there was no response. Then, from within the barn, came a bewildered reply, “Twilight? What in the hay are you doin’ here?”

The large doors creaked open, and Applejack trotted out, her gait uneven, favouring one leg as she moved. Twilight couldn’t help but gasp softly at the sight. Applejack looked gaunt, her frame thin and wiry beneath the familiar stetson. Her mane, once so vibrant, now appeared limp and streaked with grey, while the tired bags under her eyes stood out starkly against her fillyish freckles. The once robust farmer, full of vitality and strength, had withered.

Applejack adjusted her hat, trying to act casual as if nothing were wrong, though her limp was unmistakable. “Ah’m just gettin’ ready for apple buckin’ season,” she said, her voice light but strained. “Gotta make sure the barn’s ready to process the harvest.”

Twilight’s heart ached as she saw her friend soldiering on as if she hadn’t aged a day. The barn was too quiet, too empty. Where was her family? Where were the farmhands? She couldn’t help but wonder why Applejack was facing all this work alone.

Trying to compose herself, Twilight forced a gentle smile and asked, “How are you, Applejack?”

Applejack blinked at her, seeming to miss the real question. “Oh, Ah’m fine. Just busy. Lots to do before the harvest really gets goin’.”

Twilight stepped forward, her tone firmer but still kind. “I didn’t ask what you were doing, AJ. I asked how you are.”

For a moment, Applejack’s eyes widened, that familiar bug-eyed look she always got when trying to tell a lie. But this time, she didn’t follow through. Instead, she let out a deep, shuddering breath, her legs buckling as she sat down in the dirt. Her head hung low as tears welled up and began to streak down her muzzle, leaving damp trails on her weathered fur.

“Ah feel so guilty, Twi’,” Applejack whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “Ah’m relieved she’s gone... and ah hate myself for it.”

Twilight felt her heart clench as she moved closer to her friend, gently sitting beside her. Applejack’s words came in halting sobs, her chest heaving as she struggled to get them out. “Ah never wanted to watch her fade away like that... Piece by piece. Day by day... It was tearing me apart to see her lose herself... ah just... ah couldn’t bear it anymore.”

She sniffed, wiping at her tears with a hoof, but they kept coming. “And now ah feel like the worst pony in Equestria. Like ah’m some kind of... monster. Ah should’ve been stronger. Ah should’ve wanted to keep her here, no matter what.”

Twilight, her own throat tightening with emotion, reached out and placed a comforting wing over Applejack’s back. “Applejack,” she said softly, “what you’re feeling isn’t selfish. It’s... it’s not wrong to be relieved. Losing someone like that... watching them fade... it’s one of the hardest things anypony can go through. It doesn’t mean you loved her any less. It doesn’t make you a bad pony.”

Applejack’s sobs quieted, but her gaze remained fixed on the ground. “But it feels selfish,” she muttered, her voice small, almost broken. “It feels wrong.”

Twilight shook her head gently, her voice steady. “No, AJ. It’s not selfish. It’s just... it’s part of the pain of losing someone we love. You didn’t want her to suffer. You didn’t want either of you to suffer.”

Applejack looked up at Twilight with tear-filled eyes and managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Twi’. Ah don’t know what ah’d do without ya,” she said softly. But then, as if the weight of everything settled back on her shoulders, she deflated, her ears drooping and her gaze returning to the ground.

“Ah just... ah can’t do it anymore,” Applejack admitted, her voice hollow. “Ah can’t face the long evenings alone. Ah never thought it’d be this hard.” She paused, taking a shuddering breath before continuing, “Granny Smith... she used to say that keepin’ busy would keep the pain away, and maybe she was right. That’s why ah’ve been workin’ myself to the bone, every single day. Ah don’t wanna think any more, Twi’. Ah just want to stop... feelin’.”

Twilight’s heart sank as she listened, her eyes wide with shock. She hadn’t expected Applejack, the strongest and most resilient of them all, to be carrying such a heavy burden. “But, Applejack,” Twilight began, her voice tinged with concern, “you’ve got your family. Apple Bloom, Big Mac, all your grandfoals... surely their love, their support, is enough to help ease the pain?”

Applejack shook her head, her expression distant, almost numb. “It ain’t, Twilight. It just... it just ain’t enough.” Her voice trembled, her honesty raw. “Ah love ‘em all, more than ah can say, but when the sun goes down, and it’s just me and the quiet... ah can’t stand it. Nothin’ fills that space. It’s like a hole ah can’t ever patch up,so ah cover it with exhaustion until ah can't stay awake no longer.”

Twilight felt a lump form in her throat, unable to comprehend how deep the sorrow had run. “But you’re not alone. I'm here for you,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort. But Applejack, the steadfast farmer who had always been the one to hold others up, looked back at her with eyes filled with an emptiness that Twilight had never seen in her before.

“Ah know y’all are here,” Applejack replied quietly, “but it’s just not the same without her.”

Twilight remembered it all too well—the moment when she’d wrapped her wing around the frail shell of the once indomitable Applejack. How her friend had leaned into her, burying her face against Twilight’s chest, her whole body trembling with the weight of emotions she’d been holding back for far too long. Harsh, jagged sobs tore from Applejack, shaking Twilight down to her very core. The sound was raw and primal, like a dam breaking, and it shocked Twilight deeply. She had rarely, if ever, seen Applejack shed a tear before, and now here she was, utterly consumed by grief.

Twilight could sense that this wasn’t just sorrow for Rainbow Dash, though that loss cut the deepest. It was as if Applejack had chosen solitude so nopony could witness the full shame of her despair. Twilight had never realised how much her final friend had been hiding from her. The princess, so used to being the one to solve problems, felt helpless in the face of such profound agony. There was no easy solution, no magical fix.

As Applejack’s sobs gradually slowed, her breathing became shallow and hoarse, giving way to the fitful, restless sleep of a pony truly spent. Twilight carefully gathered the exhausted mare up, her heart heavy with a mix of sorrow and tenderness. With a soft glow of her horn, she teleported them both to Applejack’s bedroom and gently laid her friend on the bed. Applejack didn’t stir, so deep was her exhaustion.

Twilight stood there for a long moment, watching over her old friend. Her first instinct was to send for the royal physician, to do something, anything, to help. But she knew Applejack. There was no way she would agree to rest, no matter how desperately she needed it. Stubborn to the end, she’d refuse the respite, as if stopping for a moment would let the grief overwhelm her entirely.

With a heavy sigh, Twilight turned and went downstairs. The farmhouse kitchen was simple and familiar, a place of warmth and comfort. She set to work, making a nourishing broth, hoping that it would give Applejack the strength she needed, even if it was just a small gesture. Twilight found herself grateful for the distraction of busying her hooves with the simple task. It kept her from the paralysing feeling that there was nothing she could do to truly help her friend, nothing that would make the aching loneliness go away.

After lowering the sun, Twilight sat in quiet meditation in the yard of Sweet Apple Acres, letting the stillness of the evening settle around her. The beauty of her surroundings—rows of sturdy apple trees, their leaves shimmering in the rainbow hued after-dusk sky—stood in sharp contrast to the painful memories of the day's events.

As she looked around, her thoughts drifted to the many foals who had passed through Sweet Apple Acres over the years. This land, which had been in Applejack’s family for generations, had become more than just a place of hard work and harvest. It had become a sanctuary for young fillies and colts, some orphaned, others simply in need of a loving home. Twilight marvelled at how Applejack and Rainbow Dash had opened their hearts and home to so many, shaping lives that might otherwise have been lost to neglect or hardship. It was a monument to their love—not just for each other, but for the future of Equestria.

In truth, it had been Rainbow Dash who had first pushed to foster. Her desperation to care for young ponies had always been clear to see, especially in the way she treated Scootaloo. To the outside world, their bond might have seemed purely sisterly, but Twilight had always seen something deeper, something maternal in Rainbow’s fierce affection for the disabled young Pegasus. Over the years, Rainbow’s determination to give foals a safe, loving home had only grown stronger. Yet Applejack had embraced the idea just as wholeheartedly. Sweet Apple Acres, once a quiet, traditional family farm, had become a haven for strangers in need of parents, and Applejack, with her deep sense of responsibility and love for family, had welcomed each and every one of them. Together they had given so many young lives a chance for happiness and a trade, a purpose they might not have found elsewhere. Rainbow and Applejack had left a legacy not just in their land and crops, but in the hearts of those they had cared for.

So deep had been Twilight’s meditation that it was a shock when she realised she could hear birds beginning to stir in the branches, their songs gentle and sweet, signalling it was time for her to raise the sun. At her command the first rays of sunlight began to creep over the horizon, and Twilight stood slowly, feeling the weight of the day ahead on top of the sleepless night that had just passed. Even as the light spread across the farm, chasing away the shadows of the night, Twilight felt a pang of bitterness at the cruelty of it all—how life carried on, indifferent to the suffering of those who remained behind.

With a heavy heart, Twilight made her way back to the farmhouse, her long shadow stretching ahead of her, as if tethering her hooves to the earth. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of the morning’s light had suddenly become a burden. The thought of the conversation she was about to have twisted in her chest, and she felt a tightening in her throat. She had to try—she had to make Applejack see sense, to help her friend grasp what was still worth holding on to.

As she approached the familiar wooden door, Twilight rehearsed what she would say, though the words felt woefully inadequate. She would try to remind Applejack that she wasn't alone. Even if Rainbow Dash was gone, the legacy of their love lived on in their family—both by blood and through adoption. There were foals who had grown up under their care, now full-grown ponies with lives and families of their own, each one a celebration of the home and love Applejack and Rainbow had built together. Twilight would tell her to draw them close, to gather her children, her grandfoals, and take comfort in them. They were the living embodiment of the love she and Rainbow had shared, the enduring proof of all they'd worked so hard to build.

Twilight would plead with Applejack to hold on, to just endure a little longer. She knew her friend was hurting, that the exhaustion of grief weighed heavier than the physical labour that had filled her days. But she would beg her to see that tomorrow might seem a little brighter, that there was still hope to be found in the lives of those who loved her. Maybe—just maybe—if Applejack could take solace in the love that surrounded her, she might find the strength to face another day.

Twilight reached for the door, her heart aching with the knowledge that her words might not be enough. But she had to try.

Twilight was in the palace when the news came. It had only been a few scant weeks since she’d last spoken to Applejack, and every day since had been a battle against the urge to check in on her old friend. But Twilight knew Applejack’s ornery stubbornness—knew that the proud farmer wouldn’t take kindly to her interference. The memory of their last encounter lingered painfully in her mind, the image of a broken, exhausted Applejack who had buried herself in work rather than grief. Still, Twilight had held back, respecting Applejack’s wishes, even as it tore at her inside.

That morning, as the daily stack of correspondence was delivered, her eyes immediately caught the Ponyville postmark on a plain envelope. The moment she saw it, a sense of dread gripped her heart. The warmth of her chambers drained away, leaving only a cold, hollow feeling as she tore it open, hooves trembling. The letter once again bore the signature of Mayor Tiara, but Twilight’s eyes glazed over the formalities as she scanned for the inevitable truth. A tradespony, it said, had found Applejack in the orchard, lying slumped among the trees she had tended for so many years. The scene had been hauntingly peaceful, the first leaves of autumn gently blanketing her still form. But the quiet beauty of it did nothing to dull the shock.

Applejack’s heart had given out, the letter explained. Exhaustion and malnourishment had claimed her in the end. Twilight’s magic flared, crumpling the parchment in her grip as a wave of fury and grief washed over her. How could this have happened? In a land of abundance, amidst the orchards that had once fed half of Equestria, Applejack—who had given so much of herself, who had loved and worked and sacrificed—had died of want. But Twilight knew the truth, the unspoken part that no letter would ever say: Applejack’s heart hadn’t failed because of hunger or toil. It had broken the day Rainbow Dash fell from the sky, and though her body had endured, the desire to live had already slipped away.

Twilight wanted to scream, to rage against the cruel injustice of it. To lose Applejack in the very orchards that had defined her life felt like a betrayal of everything she had stood for. She had poured her love, sweat, and soul into the earth, and in the end, it had taken her too. The Princess slumped in her chair, hooves shaking, her eyes stinging with tears that would soon fall.

Farewell, friends

Twilight sighed, releasing a long-held breath that seemed to drain some of the tension from her body. She felt unprepared, almost painfully so, yet realised with a wry smile that this sense of unease had been her quiet companion from her very first steps into the unknown. From her days as Celestia’s student to her ascension as an alicorn, and eventually her rise to monarch, she had felt her way forward, guided by little more than faith and the bonds she shared with her friends.

She took one last look in the mirror by her door, blinking away the glistening tears still clinging to her lashes. After drying her eyes, she squared her shoulders and straightened her crown, adjusting the peytral that settled heavily against her chest. It all felt like armour today, she thought—weighty and formidable, a far cry from the simpler trappings of her youth. With a final, steadying breath, Twilight set her jaw and turned toward the door, ready to face what lay ahead.

Stepping into the corridor, she called out for Spike, and almost instantly, the familiar sound of clawed footsteps echoed toward her. The dragon dashed up, his face lit with youthful eagerness that warmed her heart. She gently instructed him to hurry ahead and inform the functionaries of her approach. He gave her a crisp salute, his eyes sparkling with determination, before he turned and sprinted down the hallway, his tail a flash of colour against the stone. Twilight couldn’t help but smile, struck by how, despite his growing maturity and responsibilities, he was still so young in dragon years—a reminder of continuity in a world that had changed so much.

The long corridors of Canterlot echoed with Twilight's steady hoofsteps, a rhythmic cadence that seemed to deepen the quiet solemnity of her approach. She passed royal guards stationed at intervals, each one saluting as she walked by, and she offered them a small nod in return, though her mind was miles away. A part of her wished she could simply teleport and end the wait, but protocol dictated otherwise. Today, of all days, decorum had to be observed, and the weight of tradition rested on her shoulders like the mantle she wore. Her subjects—nobles and commoners alike—would be expecting not only her presence but the grace and gravitas that befitted her station.

At last, she reached the double doors to the throne room. She slipped through the antechamber, bracing herself as she entered the grand hall, where a single throne now commanded the dais, a solitary emblem of her rule where once two seats had stood in harmonious balance. Twilight’s eyes briefly settled on the empty space, the echo of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna’s presence lingering in her mind.

The throne room was filled with a throng of creatures from every corner of Equestria and beyond. Ponies, dragons, yaks, griffons, hippogriffs, and changelings stood on either side of the red carpet that stretched like a river of royal crimson from the grand doors up to the dais. She could feel their eyes on her, each gaze filled with respect, expectation, or curiosity, yet every face held a quiet reverence for the occasion. Her heart beat steadily as she made her way forward, each step bringing her closer to the throne, her final destination in the chamber—a place she was still learning to call her own.

Twilight’s thoughts drifted to the long series of petitions and appeals that had crossed her desk, each urging her to memorialise her friends in a way they would never have wanted. Some proposals had seemed almost well-intentioned—a national monument, perhaps, or marble statues to commemorate each of the six of them. Others, grander and gaudier, called for tombs as large as cathedrals, enshrining the memory of her friends as if they had been gods rather than ponies. Twilight couldn’t help but smile wryly, knowing how uncomfortable the others would have been with such displays. Her friends had always accepted the importance of their roles in Equestria, but not a single one of them would have wanted to be put on such a pedestal.

She shuddered at the thought of disturbing the peace of her friends’ final resting places to satisfy the ambitions of others. Exhuming Pinkie Pie from her family plot on the rock farm—how her family would have grieved to lose her a second time. And moving Rainbow Dash and Applejack from the quiet grove they shared on Sweet Apple Acres would feel like an act of betrayal, as if tearing them from the place they had made their own. And what would there even be to enshrine of Rarity? Her alchemical transformation left her with no body, only a trio of sapphires that served as her dazzling final testament. Then there was Fluttershy, her remains scattered in the shadows of the Everfree Forest where she had always found a strange kinship with the creatures that roamed there.

No, Twilight decided, she would honour them in her own way, with a simple yet heartfelt memorial that captured their spirit rather than their legend. It had been her choice alone, a deeply personal decision hidden from the scrutiny of the court and the nobility. It now stood behind the velvet curtains in the throne room, and soon, she would draw them back for all to see. The sight would be as much for her as for them—her own small act of remembrance, something private and enduring, a daily reminder of the lives they had lived together every time she saw it.

Twilight’s gaze swept over the gathered crowd, a sea of faces representing lives her friends had touched and legacies they had left behind. In the front rows, she saw Marble and Limestone Pie, Pinkie’s sisters, their quiet strength a living reminder of Pinkie’s own resilience. A little farther down were a few of Rainbow and Applejack’s grown children, scattered across generations yet bound together by their parents' enduring love. Twilight’s heart warmed seeing them, a living testament to the family her friends had built, a family that continued to grow and thrive.

Then her eyes fell on a small group near the edge of the gathering—students from her School of Friendship, now fully mature and contributing to Equestria in ways that honoured the values she and her friends had taught them. They were smiling, though a few seemed to wipe their eyes, their presence a reminder of the purpose and the passion that had driven her friends to do what they did for Equestria.

And then there was Discord. Sitting next to the elderly and grey Big Mac, who nodded solemnly in agreement as Discord whispered animatedly, gesturing with one clawed hand. Discord’s expression was pensive, his usual energy subdued but present, his attempt at sombre decorum tinged with that familiar sparkle of mischief. Twilight nearly smiled, her heart stirring at the sight of him. Of all of them, Discord had perhaps changed the most, and seeing him there—truly present, honouring her friends in his own chaotic way—moved her deeply.

Twilight took a deep breath, the words she’d prepared vanishing from her mind as if scattered by a gust of wind. For a moment, she simply stood in the silence, staring out at those assembled with a mixture of gratitude and awe. The countless lives touched, the connections sparked and woven together by her friends’ actions, felt overwhelming. The speech she had practised in her mind countless times seemed suddenly inadequate, like trying to capture the sun in a jar. It wasn't just heroes of Equestria that she was celebrating—they were her friends, and this was the family they had created, one heartbeat at a time, even when they hadn’t realised it.

Twilight let Celestia’s wise advice on public appearances guide her—she smiled gently, inhaling a steady breath. As she did, her gaze softened, and she felt a renewed sense of purpose. When she spoke, her tone was warm yet powerful, using just a touch of the royal Canterlot voice to carry her words to every corner of the room.

“Friends, honoured guests, citizens of Equestria and beyond,” she began, nodding toward the familiar faces and the unfamiliar ones alike. “Thank you for gathering here today. It means so much to me to see so many come to remember those who meant the world to me. To see that they have meant just as much to all of you fills my heart with gratitude. In life, they each brought something unique, something essential, to Equestria—and to me.”

She paused, her expression shifting as she prepared to touch on a topic that had weighed heavily on her heart. “There were many suggestions for how the Bearers of Harmony should be remembered,” she continued, her tone becoming more serious, more personal. “Ideas of parades, statues, and triumphant ceremonies came flooding in. But… they were not warriors or conquerors. They were not soldiers. They were ordinary ponies, our friends, and our neighbours. They fought for Equestria, yes—but their battles were often with their own fears, with the desire to make others smile, to bring comfort, and to encourage kindness. They embodied harmony not through grandeur, but through their everyday lives.”

As her voice grew softer, Twilight felt a surge of emotion. She hadn’t intended to show it, but a tear slipped down her cheek. With a steadying breath, she smiled faintly, dabbing it away. “It’s important to remember that Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, and Applejack were simply citizens of Equestria, just like everypony here. They were called to do amazing things, yes, but they were no different from any of you.” Her gaze swept over the room, pausing on familiar faces and new ones. “They didn’t die in the throes of some great battle to save all ponykind. They lived and worked among us, as friends, family, and neighbours, and when their time came, it came with the finality of the passing seasons.”

Twilight’s voice echoed in the grand hall, and she hoped that her words would resonate as deeply with the crowd as they did within her. They needed to see her friends as she had—as ponies, first and foremost.

Finding her rhythm, Twilight let herself speak from the heart. “My friends… they grew old, like every pony does. Some faced illness, others… slipped away as their mind began to falter. Watching my friends growing more geriatric was so painful.”

“Yet, in the end, when duty called them once more, Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash both gave their lives without hesitation to protect their community when they could have easily considered that they had given enough. It was their final act of courage, a reminder that they held harmony not only in their hearts but in their actions, even to the last.”

Her tone deepened, and a weight seemed to settle over the room. “But we must be honest as we remember them. Too many of my friends, in the end, found their lives too hard to bear.” A murmur of surprise ran through the crowd, and Twilight felt her voice steady as she faced them with open sincerity. “These bearers of harmony… they brought joy, laughter, generosity, kindness, and loyalty to Equestria, yet they struggled in ways that many of us never knew. Maybe, just maybe, they have one last lesson to teach us—that even the strongest, the bravest, can feel lost and alone.”

Twilight’s gaze drifted to the ponies and creatures she’d known since her earliest days, each carrying expressions of sombre reflection. “Their lives teach us that we need to look out for one another,” she continued. “If our greatest friends, our greatest heroes, can struggle so deeply, then we must take the time to reach out to others. To truly give aid, we must be prepared to put aside our own values, our own ways, and instead focus only on the needs of those we’re trying to help.”

She let the words settle, and in that stillness, she felt the weight of their truth. “I’ve had to learn this myself,” she added quietly. “I was taught that sometimes helping means setting aside what we think is right and listening to what they need. It’s not an easy thing to do, and it wasn’t for me. But the one who showed me this… they were patient, they were brave, and in their way, they guided me to understand.”

Twilight took another long pause, her eyes drifting over the crowd, taking in each familiar face and every pair of expectant eyes. She let the silence linger, collecting her thoughts and steadying her breath. Her gaze finally settled on Spike, who stood near the southern wall, one claw carefully gripping the thick cords of the heavy drapes that concealed her memorial. She gave him a small, reassuring nod, and he gave one in return, his eyes brimming with encouragement.

Looking back at the assembly, she continued, her voice warm yet earnest. “When it came to honouring my friends,” she said, “I didn’t want to raise them onto some pedestal, turning them into something more than they were. They were already extraordinary in their own way—but I didn’t want us to remember them through grand statements and towering monuments. That wasn’t them at all.”

Her tone softened as memories flooded back, and she could feel herself smiling, even through the ache of loss. “What mattered most to them was being together. Whether they were facing down some ancient villain threatening all of Equestria or sharing a picnic in the sun, it was always their time together that counted. To the world, they were heroes, but to each other… they were just friends. Friends who laughed together, cried together, fought and forgave, but always stayed true to the bonds they’d built.”

Twilight’s voice grew stronger, infused with the very spirit of those bonds. “No matter what trials they faced, or the mistakes they made, they always had each other. It’s how they survived. It’s how they thrived. And it’s how I want us all to remember them—not just as Equestria’s greatest defenders, but as ponies, as friends, as loved ones who made life a little brighter and a little kinder.”

She turned toward the wall, signalling Spike to draw back the curtains. In that small motion, there was a sense of finality, but also one of deep love and reverence—a tribute not only to her friends but to the bonds that had made them.

The crowd turned toward the southern wall, and a collective hush fell over the assembly as the heavy drapes parted. Sunlight poured through the newly revealed stained glass window, casting vibrant patterns of orange, blue, yellow, purple, and pink across the crowd. The image in the window was unlike any other depiction in the throne room. Where other windows showed regal triumphs and valorous battles, this was a simple scene—a small group of young fillies laughing, smiling, and carefree, frozen in a single, ordinary moment. One of the fillies winked mischievously breaking the forth wall of the imagined camera, her hat perched on the back of her head as she leaned in close to her friends.

In the image, six ponies stood together on a hilltop—two unicorns, two pegasi, and two earth ponies—all joined by the simple joy of being with one another. It was clear that this was not a portrait meant to capture their deeds, but rather a snapshot of who they were at their core. Each pony radiated warmth and camaraderie, untethered by titles or responsibilities. The simple, candid nature of the moment almost seemed to breathe, bringing them to life.

Twilight lightly tapped her hoof, encased in elegant gold and platinum, drawing the assembly’s attention back to her. She took a breath, steadying herself, and announced, “It’s my honour to present this tribute to my dear friends: Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, Applejack…” She hesitated, a slight, self-conscious smile crossing her face before she continued, “and myself.” Her voice wavered, but the crowd called out their joy and appreciation, filling the grand room with cheers and applause.

Twilight held herself with calm composure as she excused herself from the crowd, her smile carrying the love she felt for those who had come to honour her friends. But as she slipped away from the crowd, her expression softened, and a quiet tear traced down her cheek. She wasn’t merely a princess, not in this moment. She was a friend—one who still missed the laughter, the shared dreams, and the simple presence of those who had been her closest companions. As she walked alone down the castle corridor, the ache of grief mingled with a quiet gratitude, a reminder that though the chapter had ended, the story of their friendship would always remain in her heart.