The alicorn is like an intervention that has always been there, silhouetted against the competing colours; a hard monolith, bleaching the arguing lines of pink and blue until they are still once again.

She stands beside the carriage, watching ice and water unfold from her nostrils and waiting for the cold to penetrate deep enough to know her limbs are her own once again. Then she starts walking before her mind can reassert the deception. A hill draws itself up before her, like a dragon she knows, and she inclines her head in fleeting acknowledgement as her long legs take up the challenge. It would be cheating to fly up to the crest, even though it sits out of sight beyond the dark smudges of cloud. Winning isn’t worth it if you cheat.

The snow snaps and rasps beneath her hooves, devoid of competition in courting her ears. It sounds like her voice, and the alicorn supresses a shudder. Time enough for acknowledgement, but not now.

Not yet.

It seems lonely, this gentle path, and the alicorn frowns just like she always does. The thought comes to her that it’s far too lonely here — too quiet — and she distracts herself by counting the cobbled steps leading from the silver gates to the circle of pine trees waiting for her at the crest.

There are five hundred and twenty three, just like there always are.

Her throat constricts — traps the snow and ice deep within her until it becomes a glacier to catch each departing breath.

The trees bow and sway in the breeze, just like they always do. Like returning heroes cheering in celebration of their conquests, or librarians demanding silence and respect. Neither feel true to the alicorn in that moment, and she reflects again on whether there are merits in not choosing — in leaving oneself in a permanent state of standing before two doors, and knowing neither will close in your face.

The trees crowd her respectfully, waiting while her eyes focus and refocus on the curving shades of blue and white that embrace the grave.

It feels lonely here. Forgotten.

But that’s why the alicorn comes here in winter. For every spring the wild grass dances and the delphiniums and panseys bloom, and the birds loudly sing the roster of ponies who have come to pay their respects. It’s beautiful and warm and comforting, but it makes a falsehood of her feelings. Here, now, she can feel the cold and breathe the loneliness; own this land and her emotions — and never have a need to share them.

The snow betrays its secrets easily. The alicorn strokes the stone — caresses it — and powdered tears drift free. She doesn’t need to read the inscription, for she knows the words like a mantra. She looks anyway though, because she has to feel that every last part of her is engaged in this moment. Time has muted many things; she can never be one of them.

Like it always does, the memory comes hard, and it comes fast. There is comfort in how fitting that is.

A distillation of words, thoughts, emotions and memories; universes of sensations compress into a single shuddering breath. Two bodies lying languidly in a chair, brought into relief by the fire roaring opposite and the steam twisting from the mugs of hot chocolate held between their hooves. Lips that taste of gingerbread, and feathers that carry avalanches. Time locked away outside, along with the snow and the cold.

If only that had been true.

The acknowledgement follows then, made more potent from its earlier suppression. The alicorn opens her mouth to whisper a secret, and first her lips, then her eyes, betray her. The trees keep her counsel without protest as her cries split the air apart — cracking like ice and escaping in a ragged, uncontrollable song. She cries at how unbelievable it is, that a pony so strong and determined and constantly moving is now still and trapped in time. She cries at how that cocky smile has become a mirage; that rough voice a fading echo. That those keepsakes are just an ever-waning spell. Her hoof strikes the cold stone at the unfairness of it all — again and again until her leg grows numb —because she struggles to feel those wings around her body. She cries until her sorrow bursts free from its prison and cripples her long legs, and she slumps into the cold embrace of the snow.

And then, like she always does, she doubts. She hears Spike’s hesitant voice as he reads aloud the letter, and she remembers her response to it.

She remembers her decision, and wonders whether it was the right one.

The brief debate opens up the vulnerable sky, and fresh snow escapes to the ground below. The alicorn shivers, and shifts her body so it rests against the cold stone. As it always does, a distant memory rises to the surface, and she opens her saddlebag.

She uses her numb hooves to pull the time-weathered book free, because she has to feel every single moment of this day, and pauses briefly to look at the cover. Daring Do smiles back at her — a smile burdened not only by the promise of adventures ahead, but memories of those already passed.

Then the alicorn opens the book, and begins to read aloud.

Author's Notes:

Hello there, and my heartfelt thanks to you for reading this tale.

This has been, far and away, the most difficult and tricky story I've written on this site, and I'm still not 100% sure I've nailed what I wanted to...um...nail with it. The remit of the competition was to produce a sad/sombre story in an original and unique way, so this was always going to be an experiment of sorts.

As the theme of the story was about decisions and reflections, I wanted the style of the piece to be a little abstract and broken. Early feedback from pre-readers suggested that perhaps it had gone a little too far down that route, and so I made some revisions whilst still trying to keep the tone ethereal and segmented. Hopefully the balance is a little better as a result.

I don't want to assume that the story is so abstract and subtle that nobody understands it (I doubt that is the case anyway), but I also don't want to assume I've struck that balance correctly and that the plot is clear.

The general theme of the story is of Twilight reflecting on some keepsakes in the hope of keeping the memories she has of Rainbow Dash alive. Memories can be very powerful, but they can be very abstract, and I wanted to use verse and prose to differentiate between the two. Time will tell whether I got that right, or whether I've just been a little self-indulgent (perhaps that's applicable anyway).

The second element is of her decision, which I think (hope!) is more apparent. I deliberately wanted to keep the outcome of it vague, and invite the reader to form thier own conclusion as to what path she chose. The reasoning behind this was that a different form of sadness would be applicable to each case, and that also it might make for a story unique to each reader. It might also bring into question when those trinkets were collected — either before the (optional) split, or during the course of their life together.

If at least some of these elements came through for you then I'm happy — it means I'm doing my job correctly. But if not, it has nevertheless been an experiment I'm glad I undertook. I've certainly learnt more about myself as a writer at any rate, and that's half of the point in all of this.

Thanks again for reading.