Perihelion
By Sunchaser
It is most certainly a dream; but is it hers, or is it mine?
Does it matter? Regardless it would be forgiven, for it's a good one.
She stifles a yawn, raising a hoof to scratch absently behind an ear, catching it in the tangles of her misbehaven mane. I can't help but chuckle as she pulls a few pastel strands free along with it. She doesn't get those back, you know; and my but wouldn't the populace panic in the streets if they heard that their Princess of the Sun was losing her hair.
Celestia glances back and tries to glare, she really does, but with her bed mane and the morning sun not yet risen, the most she can muster is an adorable pout, the sort usually reserved for ponies who come up to her knees when they stand upright. It really doesn't help her case.
She looks away from my snickering, her chin at an indignant rise, and she storms out onto her balcony in a huff to raise the sun.
Would that all days started like this.
~ ~ ~
Breakfast is fresh, light, and scrumptious, not least because with the sun risen, Celestia has her usual glow again, and I'll not lie to say I'm unappreciative of it.
Better yet, you can't even tell that the soft rose streak of her flowing mane is four hairs short this morning. I cheerfully tell her as much—it's such a relief, how can I not—and she eyes me, but there's a bit of a smile that she can't quite hide.
The tea is lovely, mint and lemongrass. Just sharp enough against the honey toast. It's an old favorite, she tells me, going back to somepony she knew long ago. There's a certain glint in her eye: nostalgia, a touch of longing? But she looks to me again and smiles, and it's whisked away by present company.
I can't blame her, really. My company certainly brightens my own spirits.
~ ~ ~
Bless her noble charity, I can't help but shake my head that Celestia holds court on saturdays. For that matter, she'd probably do so on sundays as well, if it weren't literally her day, and thus given to her for rest.
The one article in the national charter probably helped too.
I understand why she does it, of course. Truth be told, I probably wouldn't be much different, were I in her gilded shoes; it's for them, the gathering of ponies from all callings and creeds, lined up not-quite-out-the-door (but it is the weekend, and most of them like their two days).
It has its detractions, of course; the adorably scheming nobility and their dramatic plays at politics know no rest, business day or otherwise.
She still listens; just a touch less...intently, than she did to, say, the weathered group of farmers that had petitioned an hour ago. As the noblepony drones on at her, she glances at me, her eyes desperately pleading save me, but I smile and shake my head. Forgive them their petty trespasses, I silently say. They don't know any better.
She sighs, nodding, accepting her sentence with dignity and grace. I manage to restrain my laughter; it wouldn't do for the baron—or was it marquis?—to know he was just being humored.
Of course, he knew he was just being humored—well, most nobles did. It was just how the dance was performed. But one had to stay in character while on stage, no?
~ ~ ~
With dinner comes decompression, the crown being gently set down on the table when in truth it was wished to be thrown out the nearest window, but that wouldn't do; they were expensive things.
I press, just a touch, with a raised brow and curious mien, but she's not telling that story. A pity.
Court has closed, and the bottle is opened; steaming garlic bread and rich tossed greens are accompanied by a sparkling white, something with a tart sweetness I find myself surprisingly fond of. Celestia smiles; she hoped I'd like it. I'm not terribly partial to her typically favored red, you see.
It's a quieter meal than breakfast was, but such isn't a bad thing. We trade a few words; she wished her sister was about—I'd find her quite amenable, she says. The sunset colors the sky in brilliance, red and orange and indigo in a dance of degrees as the stars play chase, and it's quiet, just the two of us.
She doesn't have moments like this anymore, she says quietly. Her smile is fragile.
~ ~ ~
The stars shine brightly against an ocean of secret wishes.
You wouldn't think it to look at her, but get her crown off and sit her down, and Celestia is a talker. Her country, her ponies, her protégé, even herself—if you know the right questions.
I've gotten very good at asking the right questions.
I won't, of course, spill her secrets for all to see. I'm great at digging up said secrets, but that's in no small part because I'm also the best keeper of them I've ever known. Trust, after all, is a thing not just given, but earned, and carefully kept.
Celestia...her trust is a precious thing. I'll give you that one for free.
Her chambers have since fallen silent, however. Now we stare out at her sister's stars, and relish the cool night breeze. Because it's this, right here, right now; these moments are full to bursting with life. These moments are treasured, never to come again. These little snippets of time are sacred. She understands that, as I do.
She leans in, resting her head against my shoulder, and I'm not surprised (nor disinclined, truth be told. Would you be?)
I pull her closer to me, and she's a little surprised, in that I'm so direct. Shouldn't I be unsure, nervous, worried of social standings? Shouldn't I be ruled by the same petty concerns as everyone else?
Well, maybe I should be, I tell her, but I've never been so good at just doing what I'm told. I'm far better at doing what I wish, and so I hold her close to me; stroke her flowing mane, gently teasing out a nascent tangle.
She buries her head against my neck and cries.
I don't blame her.
~ ~ ~
The moon hangs low on the horizon, and the stars flee the rising rays of the dawn.
She slept peacefully. It's a rare thing, and for the fleeting moment she can, she treasures it. But it's quiet now, and there's little left to be said: dawn is coming. She feels it, an impatient destiny bearing down on her hopes and dreams, and she would cry but for already having done so.
She rises, eventually, knowing who always wins in contest between her and the inexorable sun.
"I think I could love you," she whispers into the still air.
But night has given to morning, and I'm already gone.
