Chapter Eighteen

Considering how many ponies were crammed inside the room it was surprisingly quiet, especially after Twilight had dropped her bombshell. Glancing at the patient–in–question, Spike could see Sunset Shimmer's complexion was a bit on the green side. Not that he blamed her in the least. Fact was, he was feeling a bit queasy himself at that revelation.

Moments later the attending physicians, almost as one body, swarmed about Sunset Shimmer, taking vitals, assessing her condition, and rapid-firing questions, multiple horns glowing as they did. Princess Luna, after a second or two, more sedately followed, expressing concern along with relief to Sunset Shimmer regarding her condition and incipient recovery.

Leaving Twilight standing there, alone.

Spike felt his jaw drop at that. And, as the minutes passed with Twilight still being ignored and sidelined, his jaws then clenched as literal flames flickered past gritted teeth, that astonishment quickly shifting into true anger. Are you serious? A growl rumbled from within his chest. I know that everypony has been worried sick about Sunset Shimmer, and I know they're all relieved at whatever–that–had–been being fixed and Sunset Shimmer being cured. But, seriously?

Glancing back at Twilight, Spike felt heartbroken at her expression…then felt dismay and trepidation as her mien suddenly, like a flipped switch, changed. There was no longer any emotion reflected in her eyes, her appearance was not simply neutral but, instead, was now completely blank, devoid of any expression. Seriously? Nopony—nopony at all—could even thank her? Not even Princess Luna? Even after Sunset Shimmer had been cured, she hadn't thanked Twilight; instead, all she'd done was seek affirmation as to whether the plan had actually succeeded!

Opening his mouth to rip strips off them all, everypony jumped as the door abruptly burst open. "Princess Celestia!" the Solari blurted. "She's awake!"

Within seconds the room was emptied, everypony—including a radiantly joyous Sunset Shimmer—racing out to see their Princess of the Sun…passing around Twilight as if they were a stream flowing around a rock.

Well, almost everypony: left behind were a small dragon and an utterly detached and emotionless alicorn…

…except Spike imperceptibly sensed, on a level deeper than true awareness, Twilight withdrawing; retreating back behind the armor of her detachment.

Armor, Spike was alarmed to understand, that had been weakened…exposing Twilight's vulnerability.

"I wanna go back to the castle. I don't wanna be here anymore. May we go now? Please? I want Doctor Horse and Nurse Redheart."

Spike jerked his head to the side, gazing wide-eyed at Twilight's voice, at first interpreting that as petulance. Seconds later, however, rocking him to his core, was realizing she sounded more a heart-sick and soul-weary foal.

Blast! he thought, mentally kicking himself. I didn't even think about how we'd get home after this. And I should have, especially after seeing how terrified she'd been on the ride up here! His mind racing eight furlongs a minute—or like Pinkie Pie after a tray of cupcakes—Spike scrambled through potential options. Chariot was definitely out. Friendship Express was a potential option, although that depended on its evening schedule. Walking was out; not that either Spike or Twilight were unable to walk, but it was a terribly long distance and, frankly, he didn't think she had that in her tonight. Perhaps a hotel? Hostel? Maybe a—

Snapping his talons, Spike faced Twilight. "Miss Sparkle?" he softly began. "Can you trust me?"

"What is this?" Twilight's voice was low and wearied as she followed Spike through the doorway. Dully looking around, she started perking up as she did, eyes gliding over the small canopy bed in the middle—looking less frilly than she would have expected for a bed of that type—and fixing on the bookshelf.

Well, bookshelves.

Spike quietly closed the door behind him as she continued perusing the small room. At the base of the canopy bed was a small footlocker, and to one side was a small dog bed—a well-used yet well–taken–care of dog bed. While over there—

Widening eyes flicked back to the dog bed as her mind starting spinning up to speed. "This is—"

"—Our old room, yes," Spike quietly finished for her, a small lump forming in his throat as memories—rich, thick, complex recollections—flowed inside. "And that was—well, still is, I suppose—my old bed."

Flashing back to earlier that afternoon, somehow Spike's fairy tales of "being hatched from an egg" and "being taken care of by Twilight" took on an entirely new perspective. Light tocs gently echoed as Twilight explored: examining the bookcases, glancing at the titles along the spines of the many tomes and volumes stored there; scrutinizing the small yet well-equipped study desk, with quills and capped ink bottle at the ready; noticing the room's—and, by extension, the room's occupant—emphasis on functionality while also gracefully permitting some creature comforts.

She sensed peace and serenity; wonder and joy; hope and anticipation. When the world was all bright and shiny like a newly-minted penny, and that whole, entire world was full of mystery and marvel, just waiting to be explored and understood!

Feeling incipient tears welling behind closed lids, Twilight firmly crushed them under her hooves.

"S-s-Spike? Would…would you mind walking with me?" she hesitantly fumbled. "I-I need to walk," she softly admitted, "I always walk my Spike just before bedtime. Not that I'd be walking you," she quickly clarified. "It's just—"

"There's a garden not that far away," Spike said, lightly patting her flank as he stepped to the door, cracking it open before peeking out into the dim hallway. "It's always pretty peaceful, but it's especially so this time of night." Verifying they were truly alone with nopony in sight or sound, Spike gestured for Twilight to follow.

It was cool and crisp this time of the evening, the altitude of Canterlot contributing to the milder temperature and clime. Because of that, the garden was redolent with lilac and honeysuckle, evening primrose and wisteria, each scent fading only to be replaced by another as one meandered along the graveled paths, lighted lanterns casting illumed circles where those hoofpaths intersected.

Gradually, Spike began hearing odd, barely-audible sounds almost lost beneath the rhythmic crunch of crushed stones beneath hooves. Curiously glancing about, he finally realized it was Twilight, her lips moving but scarcely making any sound at all. His stomach dropped again as he started stringing together the occasionally-understood words into semi-coherency, and all the more so recalling an earlier conversation with Doctor Horse.

There is something about her history, her past, that has helped create the Miss Sparkle we have with us today. Which is why I very much suspect her insistence on the formality of address is a form of protection: some sort of emotional shielding as it were…But I do believe that she is, very much, a delicate, fragile creature at heart, with many fears. She seems to have developed a formidable armour about and within herself. The outer shields her from the slings and arrows that life hurls her way, while the inner protects and locks away those experiences and feelings that pain and hurt.

Although his ears were nowhere near as flexible as a pony's, still, as a dragon, Spike could narrow down the focus of his hearing and, as he did, his heart grew sicker as his anger stoked back up again, as those whispered mouthing grew more clearer to him.

Needing others is a weakness…free myself from distractions…maintain singular focus…turn off useless emotional as to fully focus…clarity and energy…rest of the world is falling away, leaving only my goals and aspirations behind… take all the time needed to stay focused; nothing else is more important…super organized…keep my thoughts on my goals…my concentrated efforts are paying off!…I'm already feeling more disciplined…Focus is commitment and I'm worth it.

Anxiety was burgeoning within Twilight as she slowly ambled, long-familiar and well-practiced mantras no longer working as effectively as before. Too much. Too many changes. Can't get composed. Can't meditate…not in this body! At least, no way to do so in lotus. Can't relax; can't properly C&G with aikido…and again, not with this body. Can't ignore these pulsing energies—she softly hissed—this magic!—churning inside.

"Spike?"

The little dragon stopped as Twilight halted. "Yes, Miss Sparkle?"

"I'm really tired. And my head's hurting as intensely as before. Can you find me some of the analgesic Doctor Horse had prescribed for me, and, if so, bring me a dose? Along with a glass of water? Please?"

Spike nodded, and started to answer, but paused as Twilight continued, her eyes tightening with misery and intensity.

"And some of that magic-dampening potion, too. Please? The full-strength one this time."

"My fault. Failed. Never—" a garbled sound, "approval."

Spike stood there at her bedside, silently watching as T fitfully tossed and turned, her coat damp, almost lathered. He'd managed coaxing—not from any of the senior specialists from before—one of the general physicians into providing not just the analgesic and mild sedatives dose, but the full‑strength magic-dampening one as well.

The moment Spike had returned with the medication, Twilight had latched onto them like a Breezie with sweets, downing them in seconds. Her full attention was focused on that potion and those elixirs; so much so that she never even blinked once when Spike poured icy water into the tumbler that had been sitting at the edge of the study desk… from a carafe also sitting there…and hadn't been touched since they'd entered the room.

The next few minutes had been both confusing and puzzling for the two of them. It took Spike almost a minute to figure out the halting, jerky motions of the somnolent alicorn, and, if he hadn't spent time in her world with his Twilight, he'd never have deduced it:

She was trying to get undressed and ready for bed.

"Here," he softly but firmly took charge. "It's been a long day, and you're exhausted. I'll just turn down the coverlet and sheets," he soothingly murmured as he did so; then, patting the top of the bottom sheet, "There you go. Just climb in and get comfy. I'll tuck you in soon as you're settled."

He wanted to burst into tears when T—after having finally managed getting into bed—reached up to her muzzle with both forehooves…

All she wanted to do was take off her glasses, Spike smothered a sniffle, both at his thought and at her expression. It's the little things that are tripping her up; that are causing the most pain. She can walk and trot, climb and descend stairs, graze and drink—teleport, too, Spike winced at that, feeling a shivery jolt of dread. She's adapted to the physical change to her form, but not what that morphological change has done to her abilities. Things like writing, like taking her glasses on and off.

Crossing forehooves atop the pillow, T settled her cheek on them. Closing her eyes and giving a final, sleepy yawn, Spike watched as she dropped instantly asleep.

Spike had barely gotten himself comfortable, and had just started dozing when a low whimper pulled him instantly awake. And so, over the last half-hour, he'd played silent sentinel, quietly watching T as mild fidgets grew more active, as tossing-and-turning grew stronger. Oh! How he wished he knew what was tormenting her so!

The bitter wind stopped cutting through her nightgown, a puzzling realization that, before she could figure it out, was superseded by the sensation of being lifted, then next followed by being carried. She felt herself then perched atop a comfortable, cloth-covered seat which vibrated beneath. Felt the warmth surrounding her begin creeping its way inside, as snow melted from her hair and brows, trickling downwards in icy threads.

Time passed; how long, she had no idea. Her thoughts—such as they were; frozen as the rest of her—glacially flicked as her mind struggled to just lock onto one. Then…

Murmured voices. Knives of ice stabbing her as she was lifted up and out into blustery, icy wind. Being sat back down again, this time atop a leather-covered seat, surrounded once again by warmth.

Warmth that never touched her core.

A bounce and jostle. A low, deep, masculine voice. "Are you feeling OK? Are you getting enough heat?"

A headshake, then a nod.

"Do you know where you are? What's your name? How old you are? Do you know what happened?"

Off in the distance could be heard the low wail of sirens. "At the house. Twilight Sparkle. I'm four years, six months and twelve—no, thirteen days, old." A very long pause. "I failed. I failed Mommy…and him."

"Failed? Failed, how?"

She finally looked up at him, seeing the uniform, the badge, the laden belt, small hand reaching up to her cheek, tiny fingers brushing the still-visible handprint there. "I didn't get them to leave." A dead tone, leeched of all emotion. "I knew it was carbon monoxide. I knew it. But I failed to get them to listen. Failed to get them to leave. And now they're gone—" and I'll never earn Mommy's approval. Never ever ever.