“One must pay dearly for immortality. One must die many times while one is still alive.”

–Friedrich Nietzsche, German Philosopher

It was discomfiting, feeling the time vanish with increasing speed. Celestia kept looking up from her work to see familiar faces aged or gone. All those lives, all those little moments with her ponies, were like a running stream. She held still, and they moved on. There wasn’t even time to meet them properly.

That was okay. Celestia lived in her own world of bureaucracy and law. It was her place. She was content in it. No lover since Sombra, no friend since Rooke, and it was harder and harder to care. Close bonds meant uncertainty in her ordered life. They would disrupt her rule, and that was a thing Equestria didn’t need.

No, better to watch the ponies from afar. Getting close… hurt.

It happened, now and then, and never the same way twice. Unwanted cares and doubts, always as a result of growing too close to a single one of them.

Today, it came during one of her visits to Canterlot Hospital. Such were usually choreographed affairs, with her meeting a hoof-full of patients chosen for their good attitude and connections.

The round of shallow well-wishing went as planned, but an unscheduled pair managed to slip past the guards. Two mud-brown unicorns. Common servants. The guards moved to pull them back, but a nod from Celestia overruled.

“Please, Princess, come see my daughter.” The wife’s voice was choked with emotion. Her homely mate rubbed her shoulder with a comforting hoof, his own face in silent tears.

“Her name’s Sunbeam – because she lit up our lives, Your Highness – and she doesn’t have long. The doctors say tomorrow, if even that.”

The poor mare swallowed hard, her voice breaking. “Please see her? She always looked up to you, and I want to give her this. Just for a few moments.”

Celestia had a full schedule. Her guard captain opened his mouth, beginning to tell them she was far too busy.

He got out half a sentence before seeing the deathly glare from his Princess. No. She was most assuredly not too busy for this. Leaving the mourning parents outside, Celestia entered the child’s room.

She didn’t flinch at the sight, though most ponies would have. It was the blackblood disease: Incurable, awful. Thick black veins crisscrossed Sunbeam’s body, bulging above her creamy brown coat. They were clustered so densely across her face that the girl looked like a monster. Yet even so, traces of her mother’s lipstick remained on the cheeks and lips.

The thickening blood vessels had made her eyes protrude, and robbed them of sight. But somehow they still lit up when Celestia quietly said, “Hello.”

“Printheth Thelethia!” The child’s response was enthusiastic, though clumsy and lisping. Speech was hard on her swollen tongue, leaving Celestia to do the talking.

The princess opened her mouth for the usual bland encouragement, but nothing emerged. What should she say, with Death standing at the bedside? She knew, once. She embraced Star Swirl in the wizard’s last moments, and comforted Caesar at his deathbed. But somewhere along the way, Celestia forgot how.

Soldiering on, she half-mumbled trite words of encouragement. Things may get better. Don’t give up hope. Miracles happen.

They sounded so hollow, even in her own ears. Even to the filly. As Celestia stumbled from one line to the next, the child’s face fell. Brackish tears began running from the unseeing eyes.

Celestia caught herself, panic rising. She was here to give comfort! Not worsen the misery. But how?

She removed a hoofcup and began rubbing the filly’s shoulder, gently stroking the withered muscles. The silent tears went on as Celestia grasped for words.

Finally she found them: unscripted, uncertain, but all she could think to ask. “Are you scared?”

Sunbeam hiccupped and nodded.

“Please, please don’t be.” Celestia leaned in, gripping the child. “It’s…”

Her voice was quiet, though shrill and cracked. Celestia breathed softly, feeling the tears well up within her. “It’ll be alright. It’s not scary, it won’t hurt. It’ll feel like you’re sleeping.”

“I don’t wanna thleep,” Sunbeam whimpered back. “I wanna play.”

Celestia bit her lip hard and looked away. She breathed in sobs, but kept them shallow, desperate to hide them. Her hoof continued gently rubbing the shoulder, giving no sign of the tremble striking the rest of her body. She pressed the other forehoof to her mouth, biting the chilly gold of her hoofcup.

If only she stayed in this morning, she'd be safe behind her desk: writing letters, stamping bills, and blissfully unaware. But now she was trapped.

“Hush, now. Don’t cry.” Ignoring her own tears, keeping her voice as calm as she could, Celestia wiped the child’s eyes. “You’ll be asleep because you’ll be tired. Do you want to know what happens after you wake up?”

Sunbeam blinked her swollen eyes. Curiosity replaced sadness on her face, and she seemed to look to the princess to continue.

Celestia gave a soundless sigh, and did so. She spun a wonderful story of how Sunbeam would wake up in a place above the clouds. The illness would be left behind, and she could play with the other children to her heart’s content. She would meet her ancestors, and help take care of the pets that were there. There would be big, golden telescopes she could use to watch over her parents. And when the time came, she’d be able to welcome them to that great place, and they’d never be apart again.

The filly smiled as Celestia went on, telling of the great fun she would have when this last, hard part was done.

And Sunbeam kept smiling as she fell asleep, breathing softly through her blackened lips.

Celestia was smiling, too. A kindly smile she kept plastered on her face as she hugged with the parents and stepped past her wet-eyed captain.

The smile remained through the streets of Canterlot, where even now rumors of the event were spreading. Then the smile paraded for those at the palace, for every servant and duke.

A few short words cancelled her meetings that afternoon. A rare event, but nopony questioned her. She swept to her living space, though not so quickly that she couldn’t thank her guards for their work, or laugh at the latest Caesar’s joke.

Two flights of stairs to her room, as ever. The door opened without a sound and shut behind her, then locked for good measure.

She didn’t want to look. But slowly, purposefully, Celestia turned her head to the left.

The last pony she wanted to see right now. There in the mirror was this dreary white alicorn, with eyes aimed back and lips turned to a disappointed frown.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Celestia snarled. She turned her gaze away from the reflection and kicked off her hoof cups. “It’s not like I lied back there.”

No counter-argument came, but Celestia made it herself. “I mean… I don’t know, any more than any pony else. I don’t know it’s false, so it’s technically not a lie.”

This time, a deep, male voice answered. “‘Technically’ you made it all up.”

Celestia raised her head. Sombra stood next to her in the mirror, frowning.

It gave her a start, but she rallied, ignoring the strangeness of his presence. “That doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” Celestia shot back, turning her attention to wiggling out of her necklace.

Sombra gave a low grumble, as he always did when foul-tempered. “Oh, think about this for a second. Why did you even bother?”

“It made her happy,” she returned airily, glancing back. “Shouldn’t I care for my subjects?”

“You don’t care,” the old king parried, giving his mean, cynical smile. “You just salved your own conscience, that’s all. A few minutes with the little brat to feel like a ‘good princess.’”

All but her crown removed, Celestia turned her gaze to the discarded hoof cups on their rug. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she sniffed. “Even back then, you were like this. You wondered what you could get out of your subjects, and not the other way around. It was always about you. You and your ego.”

She felt, rather than saw, Sombra’s smile grow. “Said the princess with the messianic statue of herself.”

That got to her. Celestia turned violently with a snap on her lips.

And all she saw in the mirror was her own snarl. Her face froze and she waited.

Nothing. Sombra was gone.

Celestia sat down, rubbing her hooves hard into her eyes. That was twice now that an old foe had appeared to her. These visions weren’t normal, of course, but what were they? She sensed no magic here. No illusions at work. But magi-science also declared there was no such thing as ghosts, so who knows? Maybe she had just dozed for a few minutes and dreamed it.

Or maybe… she was a little bit crazy. Celestia set her hooves down and sighed, looking everywhere but towards the mirror.

Crazy. If that was the case, there was no helping it. What – the Great Princess Celestia, visit an alienist? That would be the end of the nation. Who would follow a self-admitted madmare?

Not a chance. If these sightings kept happening, she’d just have to ignore them.

Her horn glowed, and the tiara rose from Celestia’s head. She set it on the shelf, deciding that an early bedtime might be exactly what was needed.

The crown clinked against a foreign object. Celestia looked up, seeing it pressed against that old statue of her and Luna.

“Messianic,” Sombra called it. Celestia took the statue in her magic and brought it close, turning it to face her. No change since she set it up there all those years ago. Still a majestic, haloed Celestia, standing triumphant over Nightmare Moon.

Time was taking its toll on the finer points, but the workmanship remained brilliant. Griffons could make art with their claws more detailed than even the most masterful unicorns. It was more than just skill; something about holding the tools physically let them almost pour their soul into it. Especially with a piece like this. This plaster Celestia was far more perfect, far more powerful than she felt herself.

Celestia did not like the statue when she got it, and she did not like it now. The imaged mare was a stranger. A hero she couldn’t be, above a beast that shouldn’t be. Sombra was wrong when he implied she kept this out of ego. It was just politeness.

Her face snarked the tiniest grin. Whatever-his-name-was Greyfeather had to be long dead by now, so the time for politeness had passed.

She almost dropped the statue, there and then. But… it was very beautiful. A griffon artisan had spent months or even years working the plaster and gold. Senseless destruction was Discord’s way, not hers.

Still, it had to go. Her horn glowed, gripping the statue in its aura. Gently, careful not to damage it, she raised it up and deposited it slowly into her waste basket.

Celestia rolled her eyes, embarrassed at her own hypocrisy. The statue would be broken as the waste bag was collected and jostled, and it would be thrown out with the rest of the trash. Yet it wasn’t her who would break it, and that made it better. Out of sight, out of mind.

The next day, three things happened.

A letter came from Sunbeam’s parents, thanking the princess for giving their daughter a wonderful surprise. They said she talked excitedly about Celestia’s visit for hours, then passed peacefully that night.

Secondly, speaking from her throne, Princess Celestia announced the creation of a new royal office. It would be dedicated to supporting medical research, and naturally be headed by herself. Time for the duty would be made with a few changes to her schedule, including an end to her hospital visits.

Thirdly, as the evening’s shadows grew long, Celestia entered her room to find the statue back in place on her shelf.

It startled her, but she quickly sought and found a logical explanation. The afternoon cleaner noticed the statue in her waste basket and helpfully returned it to its place, presuming her morning counterpart put it there by accident. Their manager was deeply embarrassed by Celestia’s questions, and assured her twice the morning maid had been fired for the mistake.

“It’s a good thing Dusty looked before picking up the bag,” the manager said, wiping his sweaty brow and quailing in Celestia’s presence. “She showed the relic to me when she found it. Stars, that must be worth more than half the staff put together.”

“Probably,” Celestia said distractedly, half-lost in her own thoughts. “But hire her back.”

“But Princess!” he protested, which almost amused her. He was the first in a long time to question his liege. “I maintain the highest quality in the cleaning staff, and this–”

No words. Just a sidelong glance from Celestia, and his protest died. The pony bowed, promised to obey, and departed.

When he was gone, Celestia returned to her room and looked again at the statue. It was like it never moved. Somepony even turned it so it was facing away again, just like before.

She looked hard at the damnable thing for a moment, pondering what to do.

Then she shook her head, and began to prepare for bed. It hadn’t bothered her for years. The only reason she tried to throw it out now was because of Sombra. What kind of a reason was that? What happened yesterday was just a moment of spite. A moment of weakness. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

Author's Notes:

“Alienist” = Old-timey psychiatrist.

Edited this into the previous afterward, but for those who didn’t catch it: Here's a bit of fanart for this story, by the illustrious Mech.

I don’t write for “therapy” or anything. But my role as an ICU nurse often calls on me to comfort the dying, and I can say there are few things more terrifying than acting in that role.

Thank you for reading.