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It's finally a quiet night in Canterlot. The delegates have all gone home—only placated after arguing their throats raw for hours—leaving Twilight to trot alone to her chambers.
Despite her regal smile, exhaustion clings to her hooves. Her back aches, worn down from presenting a perfect posture all night. Her shoulders are stiff, as if she's been carrying around a yoke. She still doesn't know how Big Macintosh wore his all day, every day.
The thought of him sets her down a familiar path; it’s a path she's walked every day for the past hundred years. It's a treacherous direction to let her mind wander in. It’s something she must be careful moving through, or should could spiral for days.
She cautiously follows her thoughts to Applejack, a yearning squeeze in her heart. Memories roll around in her head, but she doesn’t let herself examine them too closely. She must admire the past from afar.
The stained-glass windows that line the palace halls make this harder. It feels disrespectful, almost, to bury these feelings while the visage of her friends loom over her. Their smiles all rendered in excruciating detail. All of them, together, immortalized by their greatest achievements.
Immortalized. Hah.
Twilight's ears twitch and her jaw sets. She picks up the pace. Plodding along, her hooves clack against the hardwood floor. Celestia once told her to keep her steps light in the castle, that the floor could be easily scuffed.
Respectfully, Twilight can’t find a damn to give.
Burning irritation makes her stomach toss and her chest ache. She needs sleep. She abandons her traipsing, and with an impatient flash from her horn, she teleports directly to her bedroom. Papers scatter around her, pushed aside by a gust of magical energy. She can't be bothered to fix it now and tells herself she’ll do it in the morning.
After she raises the sun.
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