A million little lights shone in front of Celestia, filling up her room as she set the teapot on the stove. All of them were different, all of them dancing and twinkling and telling her about the future. She hadn’t seen shadows in centuries.

She paid them no mind. There was someone at the other side of her chamber doors, and she had to do something about it. In truth, Celestia could have talked much sooner, but she didn’t. She wanted to wait for the water to boil.

“I know you’re looking through the keyhole, Shining Armor,” she said. She spoke slowly, but clearly. “You may come in.”

Some lights twinkled, reflecting Celestia’s choice. Behind her, the doors opened, and Shining Armor came in, speaking with haste. “I’m sorry, your Highness. My behavior was improper, and I’ll—”

“You won’t receive any punishment.” And her words echoed with deliberate calmness. “Worry not. I only wish to talk.”

“Thank you, your Highness.”

His tone was firm. He was scared.

“Shining Armor,” Celestia continued. “You’re an exemplary Royal Guard. You’re the youngest graduate in twenty years, and your services to the Crown haven’t been unnoticed.”

A nod. “Thank you, your Highness.”

“And yet.” She glared. “You peek through the keyhole.”

“I’m sorry.”

The million little lights moved around, some changed hues. Shining Armor couldn’t see them, of course—nopony could except Celestia herself. Right now, the lights explained that Celestia could end the conversation with just a word, and it would all work out. She didn’t need to go through every step. She could avoid all this.

But she didn’t want to. She filled a cup with water and added the tea. “Your job is to ensure my safety and privacy. Not,” and her eyes gleamed, “to compromise them.”

“I’m sorry.”

She waited four seconds in silence, to increase the awkwardness in the room. Then she nodded, and pointed at the table behind her. “Sit down.”

Shining Armor wanted to protest. The lights told her so, but she didn’t need to see them—his eyes were fluent enough. But she had given a direct order, and so Shining Armor obeyed without hesitation. There was only one cup at the table, but the water was still too hot to drink. His face didn’t change to the untrained eye, but Celestia could see through the little cracks in his façade.

That was the reason why she hadn’t avoided this talk. She could see Shining Armor’s feelings—she could see everything—she only needed to look at the little lights. Every color meant something, every twinkle was a word, a choice, the past, the future. Only Celestia could see them, and they told her all she had to know with just a passing glance.

So, yes, she could see through Shining Armor’s little cracks, thanks to the blue and white and green lights that danced around him, telling Celestia everything the stallion ever thought or felt. She could read what went through his head like an open book. Fear, embarrassment, self-deprecation. Awe.

Awe.

“You’re not the Captain of the Royal Guard,” Celestia said simply. “Yet. But you will be.”

“Your Highness—”

“You are,” and she raised a hoof and he stopped talking, “still too young. Too inexperienced. But you learn fast. You commit mistakes, but never more than once. There’s no official document that says you’ll inherit the position, but we both know it will happen, eventually.”

The awe increased. So did the embarrassment. What a great Royal Guard, he was surely thinking, to be caught peeping on the Princess. But he nodded. “Thank you, your Highness.”

“Yes… Shining Armor, I believe you have the potential to be a great Captain, one day.” Celestia looked at him.

Or a great zealot.

Awe, the million little lights said, and that was the problem. Zealots were dangerous things. Zealots read between lines that didn’t exist, and mistook wisdom for omniscience. Celestia had seen this happen hundreds, thousands of times before, and it had hurt every single time.

Because a Captain respects his Princess, and is willing to die for her. But a zealot worships his Princess. And he’s willing to kill for her.

And how does one deal with awe?

“Why did you look through the keyhole, Shining Armor? What were you trying to see?”

“I—” His voice cracked. “I… I must apologize, Princess.” He swallowed. “This morning, I accidentally… I had to go to the kitchen, and…”

“And,” Celestia said. “You saw me.”

“I saw you.”

A light went out. There was no reason to keep talking.

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen somepony like Shining Armor, and it wouldn’t be the last. When the years turn into centuries, and the centuries into millennia, new things become rare. Everything becomes routine. Even the impossible. Even the things that break you. But Celestia knew how to deal with this.

Shining Armor had believed her perfect, that’s what the million little lights said. That’s what “awe” meant—that deep-rooted conviction that she could do no wrong, think no evil, always be in control, always know better.

And what’s the difference, between Perfection and Divinity, if not mere semantics? If she was without flaw, if she truly knew everything there was to know… Then she wasn’t a pony, she was an ideal. Shining Armor, without knowing, believed Celestia a god.

But I am not a god. I never was. I’ll never be. Zealots mistake belief for truth, and therein lies their danger.

Reality didn’t matter. What Celestia was didn’t matter. What mattered was what Shining Armor believed—and what he believed made him dangerous.

To fight faith, one needed subterfuge. And Celestia knew that sometimes, the truth is better conveyed through lies. “Shining Armor,” she said, and her tone made him look up. “I understand that it was a shock to you, to see me like that.”

Shining Armor nodded. “Yes, your Highness.”

He wasn’t telling the truth. Shock wasn’t enough to describe it.

That morning, Shining Armor had walked in on her eating cake. Enjoying cake, in a manner that was unbecoming of the only Princess of Equestria. Something mundane enough, uncouth enough, to be almost heathen in nature.

Princess Celestia had been caught in a manner that was not that of a god. The mask had fallen, and Shining Armor had seen something that she had hidden from Equestria for ages. The idea that she was perfect, calm and collected at all times was just a lie.

That’s what the lights said, and what Shining Armor was thinking, even if he didn’t know it himself.

“Curiosity is understandable in a young stallion,” Celestia continued. “You were alone, guarding my chambers, and you were still startled for what you saw. You thought that it might have been an illusion, and you wanted to make sure. And so, you peeked through the keyhole.”

Shining Armor’s ears went down. “Yes.”

“An understandable explanation. However, it doesn’t excuse breaking your vows as a Guard. I’m your Princess, Shining Armor, but I’m also a pony.”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, I get tired. Sometimes, I get overwhelmed.”

“Yes.”

“And sometimes, I eat cake.” She sighed. “The weight of a country is heavy on my shoulders. Life is lonely at the top. But there is a reason,” and her voice turned steel, “that I enjoy my privacy, Shining Armor. Equestria doesn’t need a Princess who is just a normal pony. What Equestria needs,” is a god, “is a symbol.”

This time, Shining Armor didn’t reply. He just lifted his head, and looked at her.

The lights changed. The awe was gone, and comprehension appeared. The entire room shifted in Celestia’s eyes—all the lights that told her about the future changed and warped into something completely different, a future in which Shining Armor was no zealot, in which he was just a loyal Captain, in which no tragedy would go down in her name.

“I’m a normal pony,” Celestia said. The words resonated. “I’m a normal pony. But I can’t be. Not for Equestria. Sometimes, we have to lie to protect what we need the most. Do you understand?”

He understood. He apologized. He walked out.

As the doors closed behind him, Celestia found herself alone once more. She walked to the balcony, and her horn glimmered. The sun set.

Time takes a toll on everypony. Was it possible, for an immortal, to feel old? Was it possible to feel stagnant? How long had it been, since she had learned anything?

I am not a god. But the little lights had appeared centuries ago, when she had started to see patterns everywhere, to understand how the world and the ponies worked. She knew they weren’t real, they were only in her mind—it was just the way she could see everything at the same time, a mental exercise. With them, she knew how to solve every problem. How to change every situation. What to say, how to say it, what to do.

Because with enough repetition, everything can be mastered. Celestia had lived many years. She had tasted every wine, read every book. Her wisdom was vast enough to be deemed omniscience. Vast enough to see the lights that made her all-knowing.

Shining Armor had seen this face of her, he had understood how Celestia had transcended beyond a mere pony. She deserved a zealot. A zealot would be right about her.

But now, that faith was shattered. Shining Armor felt that she was not a paragon anymore. Never did the thought of Celestia changing his schedule so he would have to guard her door alone cross his mind. Never did the suspicion of Celestia staging the kitchen incident arise.

And that would never happen. He would be forever fooled, thinking that she wasn’t a god anymore.

He wasn’t fooled. That’s the truth. She had read the million little lights and seen Shining Armor’s future, the figure of a pony who would see her perfect, and bring pain to the world. And she had dealt with it. Swiftly. Efficiently. Because she knew better. She knew everything. There were ways for her to stop being like this, to stop seeing the lights—but if she wasn’t there to guard the ponies, all the evil she could prevent would roam free. And just one life, one single life lost because of that choice was enough to prevent her from taking it, ever.

The sky was dark now. Her horn glimmered again. The moon rose.

Celestia did not eat cake. She did not need to rest, even though life was lonely at the top. She did not learn anymore, she could see everything, remember everything. Her power grew. With every passing day, the mortal ponies became more distant. Smaller. Her little ponies, who needed guidance, who couldn’t see the way she saw.

But I am not a god. I can make mistakes. I can’t be a god. I was a god once. They saw me as a god once. And it broke me.

Her horn stopped glimmering. The moon was up.

She looked at the Mare in the Moon.

It broke us.

It had been meant to happen. She saw this, now. She hadn’t, back then, because she wasn’t old enough, and the lights weren’t there yet. But they were with her now, now that she was wiser and had seen the future, and how it always imitated the past. A timeless existence, alone, learning until she couldn’t learn anymore, until she could see the little lights.

Gods aren’t Eternal. Eternals are God.

No. No. I am not a god.

She took the cup of tea and took a sip. The temperature was perfect.

I am not a god. Because when she comes back, Luna won’t be a god.

She knew it would be perfect. She had known exactly how long her conversation with Shining Armor would go. She had known how the conversation would end, and how she would look at the moon afterwards, and what thoughts would cross her mind. That’s why she had waited for the water to boil.

And if I’m a god, I’ll be alone. I’ll be alone again. I’ll look at Luna and see not a sister, but another little pony that needs guidance. So I can’t be a god. I’m not a god.

The million lights in front of her twinkled, telling her what the future would bring, what would happen when the thousand years finally ended and Luna escaped. Telling her that gods have no sisters.

I’ll never be a god.

Sometimes, we have to lie to protect what we need the most.

Author's Notes:

Think of this story as a sarcastic counterargument.