//------------------------------// // 11 // Story: The Nightingale Effect // by N00813 //------------------------------// Chapter 11 -- “Princess Luna has shown remarkable –” I stopped yammering as Celestia raised a hoof lazily, like the judge’s gavel hovering above the platform. “I haven’t even told you why I’m here,” she said, with a soft smile. I grinned sheepishly, wings flicking slightly in embarrassment. She let the smile fall, and inhaled deeply, eyes closed, before looking me in the eye. “So, why are you here?” I ventured, before the pause could grow. “My sister’s improved immeasurably since her return,” Celestia said, glancing off towards my work, my papers. I followed her gaze. “In six, seven months, it appears that you’ve undone a thousand years’ worth of isolation.” “Not undone,” I growled, before shaking my head. When had my voice gotten so bitter? “Never undone. I just staved off the symptoms. She’ll need help for a long while after.” Celestia’s gaze hardened, her magenta eyes turning into bloody diamond. She made no sound. Neither did I. My eyes wandered, latching onto the ant that was trying to cross the expanse of featureless desert that was the ceiling. Truthfully, I didn’t know what to do. Maybe she was right. Taking some leave, getting some sense back into my head sounded like the wise thing to do – distance made the heart grow fonder, it was said. If my feelings died down, I would know that this wasn’t to be. “What is your recommendation, Doctor?” The Sun Princess’s tone was jovial, even friendly. Still, her eyes never lost that hard edge. Perhaps that was why she was such a good leader. Olive branch with one hoof, gun with the other. I grimaced. “She’ll need therapy, support, maybe for the rest of her life. From someone she trusts –” “Like you?” Those two words seemed to have been aimed specifically at me, tearing through me with the efficiency of steel bullets. Soldier on, ignore the pain, the sergeants said. Pain was a message, but so were words, and I wasn’t going to let one stop the other. “Like me, or you,” I muttered, glancing away from those incriminating eyes. That briefcase – how would it look, filled with the material I’d gained? Hopefully, it would be strong enough to carry every piece of luggage I’d garnered. “Depends on how well she reacts.” The following silence fell upon the two of us like heavy duvets, suffocating and uncomfortable. Eventually, she was the one to break it. “Do you know about the Gala?” Her tone had lost its warmth. Now cold and clinical, she sounded like a doctor – like one of my colleagues before a surgery. I shook my head. “It’s a social event, where the upper class gathers to hobnob,” she continued, before heaving a soft sigh. “As the Princess, I’m expected to be there. My sister is, as well. We both agreed that you should accompany her.” It didn’t sound like I had a choice in the matter. Still, being by the side of the Moon Princess helped make up for that. And, personally, I was a little giddy at the prospect. We griffons tended to treat parties and celebrations as private affairs, to be shared amongst those we considered valuable to us. Sharing food wasn’t in our genes, not when food was so difficult to find and catch. Thus, it was a great honor to be invited to a griffon party, where you’d sate your hunger with the hard work of the host. Pony parties tended to be different. The gist of it was, invite as many as you could, and share the happiness and food around. Probably stemmed from equine herd mentality, and the idea of protection in numbers. A party was simply a way for the host to buy allies. “You’re not worried about the political implications? The rumors?” Celestia smiled ruefully. “My sister being happy will be a victory in itself.” “Alright,” I said, slowly. “When’s this Gala?” She smiled a practiced, forced smile. It was an almost perfect facsimile of the genuine article. The only difference was that the smile hit the lips first, before the eyes. “Two months from now,” she said, and then stood up. Just before she reached the door, she stopped, and twisted her neck back to face me. “Sigurd, have you heard of Nightingale Syndrome?” Which psychologist hadn’t? I mentally sighed, and forced myself to nod once, slowly. It had occurred to me. Nightingale Syndrome was one of the occupational hazards of the job. Over time, patients and therapists would end up getting emotionally attached. This was unavoidable. Cold-hearted types didn’t make good GPs or psychologists, or even nurses. Yet, we all knew that the patient had to leave for his or her own family, in the end. Forming this attachment to break it later could be incredibly damaging to a caregiver’s psyche. This was even more pronounced in psychology circles, where the patient would pour out her soul, and it was our job to listen. Celestia simply blinked, and left. Maybe Luna was right. There were some things you simply couldn’t control. Choices that all lead to the same outcome, a number of differing outcomes from the same choice; it was all out of my claws now. Perhaps I should take some leave, think things over. Distance makes affection fonder, or something. Luna’s head appeared from beyond the borders of the doorframe, and I snapped my head back up from where I was contemplating my own claws. Her face, one of worry and confusion, immediately brightened into happiness and relief, before reverting back to worry. “Art you alright?” she exclaimed, eyes wide, as she stormed in. I looked up at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Her face, full of concern and worry; her silken mane and tail, now flowing in the air at its own accord to complement an otherworldly sight; her figure, tall and majestic, cutting an impressive silhouette; as my eyes fell upon her, I felt my lower jaw hang loose, and the hurricane of thoughts in my mind exploded outwards. For a moment, everything was disordered, yet I knew without doubt this one fact: she was absolutely beautiful. I retained enough mental capacity to recall that I hadn’t thought of her as anything other than a broken, pitiable mare just out of adolescence at the start of this whole story. When I arrived, she was a wreck; now, more than capable of living by herself, given continued support. Oh, she still had to learn the customs and the language of the times, but I suspected that she could do that by herself without a problem. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s gone right, in fact,” I murmured, a happy, tired smile breaking out over my face. “Thank you.” She blinked, and time seemed to slow as we stared at each other. A sense of passive resignation took over; acceptance. Yes, I loved her. I didn’t know when it happened, or why, or even how. I did know, that despite my own past, despite everything that had happened over the last few months – or perhaps, because of them – I’d bonded to her. And she to me, it seemed. You know those stories, where true love always prevails, even against a society hostile to the existence of that love? I’d never believed in those. I’d thought that society would win out, in the end. You had to buy food from someone, after all. Still, now, how I wished they were true. Perhaps they were. Luna’s awkward smile broke the spell, and she wrapped her forelegs around my neck in an awkward embrace. She was growing quite tall, now larger than me, but no less fluffy. I felt those warm, slender limbs press on the feathers firmly, confidently. My heart burst with pride. “No, thank you,” she murmured, moving away. She sat across from me, forehooves touching my shoulders. A warm smile graced her lips for a moment, replacing the worry and fear just a few moments ago. I took in a deep breath, savoring her scent. The fresh, clear aroma of mountain wind, of home, brought up a sigh of deep contentment. A hot blast of moist air ruffled the feathers on my cheek. Something moist pressed down on those plumes, tugging at the skin. I gasped soundlessly, jaw hanging open yet again, eyes snapping open. Even I knew what that was. It was much softer than the griffon equivalent – our beaks were designed to tear through skin, after all. It was so much more delicate, more intimate. The gesture itself wasn’t that special to an outsider, but to us, to me, it was the ultimate symbol of trust. Coming from a patient – no, a friend, or perhaps even more – that couldn’t trust her own mind a few short months ago, this was… I purred, pressing back against her and turning my head to place my cheek against hers. This was the compromise we had to make, but judging from the happy mumble of a gasp that sounded from right next to my ear, she didn’t mind at all. She pulled away, leaving the warmth of her lips and face to diffuse through the feathers and skin on my cheek. A light heat whipped up in my stomach and coursed through the bloodstream, making me feel like I’d hit a thermal and was lighter than air. It couldn’t last forever, despite my wishes. She smiled as she withdrew, standing up to her full height, before breathing out softly and turning to leave. Before she crossed the threshold of the doorway, however, she turned back to face me, gazing at me over the curves of her back and rump. “I shall see you at the Gala.”