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The Sun's Shadow – Celestia's Solitude

By AT_123
Created: 2025-12-21 03:52:23
Expiry: Never

celestia ocs raven inkwell stables au

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Canterlot Castle – Private Solar, late evening, (Princess Celestia’s POV)
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>Be Princess Celestia, ruler of Equestria, raiser of the sun, bearer of a crown heavier than any mountain.
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>The throne room is empty, the court dismissed, the moon already climbing the sky under Luna’s gentle guidance.
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>You sit alone in your private solar, the fire crackling low, a glass of untouched star-berry wine reflecting the flames like captured stars.
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You know about the Stables.
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Every one of them.
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Ponyville.
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Canterlot.
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Manehattan.
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Even the new branch planned for Rambling Rock Ridge.
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Cheerie Star reports directly (quiet letters, sealed with rose wax).
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Ice Pebble sends quarterly ledgers (numbers neat, margins generous).
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Photo Finish forwards “artistic documentation” you pretend not to enjoy.
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The founders fund them (old money, new money, noble houses who understand discretion).
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The matrons recruit the humans (rigorous screening: no liars, no predators, no souls too broken to heal).
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Some candidates skirt the edge (dark tastes, dominant urges), but the Stables take only those who can love without destroying.
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You allow it.
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Because six years ago, the birth curves were falling (three fillies for every colt, herds fracturing, mares choosing solitude over sharing stallions who could not satisfy).
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Now the numbers climb.
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Pony foals.
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Human children.
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Hybrids with eyes like dawn and manes like twilight.
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Equestria breathes again.
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Yet the price is a thorn in your heart.
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Humans are monogamous.
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Their bonds burn singular, fierce, eternal.
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Traditional herds falter.
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Mares in power (duchesses, captains, even your own guards) whisper of being taken, claimed, owned by one male alone.
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They speak of it with flushed cheeks and lowered voices, the way ponies once spoke of forbidden magic.
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Your maids gossip in the corridors.
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Raven Inkwell (your faithful secretary) blushes when she mentions her fiancé’s hands, his voice, the way he makes her feel small and safe at once.
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She is marrying him next spring.
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A part of you envies them.
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You bite your lip (hard enough to taste copper).
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Every lover you have ever taken has been fleeting.
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A century, perhaps two, then age claims them, or duty, or the slow realization that loving an immortal is loving a statue that never ages while they crumble to dust.
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You are cursed to watch them leave.
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Always.
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The Stables offer what you cannot have:
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a stallion who chooses one mare, forever.
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No sharing.
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No dilution.
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Just hers.
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Some mares call it selfish.
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You call it mercy.
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You rise, wings mantling, and approach the window.
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Below, Canterlot glitters (oblivious to the quiet revolution beneath its streets).
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You think of Cheerie’s latest report:
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new humans arriving, new foals on the way, new hope.
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You lift the wine glass, but do not drink.
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> “For Equestria,” you whisper to the empty room.
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> “Even if it means some of us must remain… alone.”
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The fire crackles.
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The moon climbs higher.
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And somewhere in the city, a human holds his mare close,
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whispering promises that will outlast empires.
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You smile (small, sad, eternal).
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And let the night continue without you.
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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Canterlot Castle – Raven Inkwell’s office, late afternoon, (Princess Celestia’s POV)
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>Be Princess Celestia, eternal ruler, mover of the sun, guardian of harmony.
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>You walk the marble corridors of your castle with the grace of centuries, wings folded, crown heavy but familiar.
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>A routine visit to your secretary’s office—to sign the day’s decrees—nothing more.
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The door is ajar.
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You pause.
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A soft gasp drifts through the crack.
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Then a low, masculine murmur—warm, possessive.
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You should turn away.
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You don’t.
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A silent spell weaves from your horn: invisibility and silence, cloaking you in perfect secrecy.
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You step inside.
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Raven Inkwell—your faithful, meticulous secretary—is bent over her desk, papers scattered like fallen leaves.
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Her glasses are askew, her mane loose, her gray coat flushed rose.
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Her human partner stands behind her, shirt open, hands gripping her hips with gentle but unyielding strength.
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He leans down, teeth grazing the curve of her neck—a soft bite that makes her shudder.
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His voice is a rumble against her skin.
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> “Who’s going to be the mother of my children?”
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Raven’s answer is immediate, fierce, breathless.
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> “I am.”
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He kisses her—deep, claiming, his tongue dominating hers as she melts against him.
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His hips roll slow, deliberate.
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The scent hits you like a wave: sex, salt, love—raw, intimate, human.
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Your breath catches.
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Heat pools low in your belly, unbidden, unwelcome.
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You, immortal, untouchable, envy this mortal mare.
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He whispers against her lips.
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> “Our little one will be as beautiful as her mother.”
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Raven doesn’t answer with words.
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She wraps her forelegs around his neck, pulling him deeper, refusing to let go.
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Her body clenches, a soft cry muffled against his shoulder as he fills her—warm, complete, theirs.
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You stand frozen, invisible, the scent of their union thick in the air, your own body responding with a traitorous ache you haven’t felt in centuries.
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Raven clings, legs locked around him, whispering promises between kisses.
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He holds her like she is the only mare in the world.
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And for a moment, you wish you were mortal enough to be held like that.
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The spell flickers.
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You retreat silently, heart pounding, wings tight against your sides.
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In the corridor, you pause, pressing a hoof to your chest.
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The Stables exist for this.
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For mares who find what you cannot.
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You smile—small, sad, resigned.
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And let the sun set on another day
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where love burns bright
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for everypony but you.