A herd is never truly silent.

Ponies sneeze, they cough, they wheeze. They shift their hooves, they shift their wings. Foals bother parents, and parents shush foals. Ponies with the need to express their every thought whisper in their friends ears, and ponies with the need to express other things pass gas. A single pony can be quiet for a silent for a time, but a herd, never.

Reporters would say, thousands of ponies waited before Twilight’s palace in silent anticipation of her commands, but it was not so. When she stepped out onto her balcony, Twilight could hear the mass of equinity gathered before her, all their little sounds running together until they formed an indistinguishable melange, something between the motion of the sea and the droning of a bee-hive.

As her eyes swept over the crowd, Twilight gave her speech in her mind. In that realm of imagination, she said: Hello, everypony. Today I’m announcing more funding for education because I really like it when foals can read.

Today I’m announcing more funding for education because that’s the sort of boring, sensible decision an efficient government makes.

Today I’m announcing more funding for education because it will pay for itself ten times over. When ponies say education is the best investment you can make, they’re being literal.

Today I’m announcing more funding for education because… I mean, honestly, do I even need to explain it? This decision is so straightforward I don’t think I needed a full speech to express it. I appreciate you all coming, but this could have been an email.

In time, she became aware that the tone of the herd had shifted. While she was lost in her own mind, her body had acted on autopilot -- looking down at the crowd, feigning eye-contact. But she had been standing there silently long enough, and the ponies were wondering if she would speak, their curiosity expressed as a subtle change in tone -- a darkening of that auditory admixture.

Bile rose in her throat, and Twilight smiled.

“My fellow Equestrians,” she said, her voice booming out across the assembled masses. “Today I am pleased to announce the EXPLODE GRIFFONSTONE act, a tremendous boost to our nation’s education system, which will ensure that the future has hooves!”

In her mind, they jeered. Oh how they jeered. The earth ponies threw rocks, the unicorns made rude gestures in light, the pegasi mimed pissing on her from above. Those ponies with griffon friends were not merely shocked by their princesses words, but embarrassed. They held their griffon friends, and Twilight could see their shame.

But that was only in her head.

The cheering drowned out the rest of her speech.



Every culture has its treasured lies, the things that all know to be untrue even as they repeat them ad infinitum. Among the ponies treasured lies is this: “Celestia is the ruler of Equestria.”

It is true on paper -- or rather, on the vellum upon which was inked the constitution. That document names Celestia as the absolute ruler of Equestria, an immortal alicorn princess whose very word is law. It names the sun itself and the entire city of Canterlot as her personal property. Its articles against slavery (Articles 3-6, Section 2) contain a specific exception for Celestia, stating that if the sun-princess can keep any creature as property, “Should the goode of the nation requieth it, or if in her divine judgment they hadith it coming.”

The exception is a dead letter. In her thousands of years of rule, Celestia has never once found a pony who she felt really deserved a good enslaving, nor has she had any desire to dominate the lives of her subjects. From the start, she felt her role as princess was not to command or control, but to listen to the needs of her ponies, and to appoint competent and morally upright officials who would see to those needs. And when the earth ponies petitioned her for democracy that they might elect their own leaders, Celestia did not resist, but thanked them for lightening her workload.

All of which was to say, while Celestia was theoretically a divine ruler of unquestioned might and splendor, very few governmental powers actually rested upon the throne. Every year, Celestia made a few appointments and sacked a few officials for corruption or incompetence, but she did not set budgets or taxes, she did not administrate departments, she did not attend planning meetings, and her involvement with the military was largely limited to parades.

And so when Twilight came to her and said, “Celestia, I’m really worried about the state of education in Ponyville -- Cherilee has to buy her own chalk, and the whole class has to share one textbook,” Celestia neither moved to act nor rebuffed her, but rather asked a question.

“Have you spoken to Governor Turn Crank? I believe Ponyville falls within the Everfree administrative region.”

Twilight said that she had, and the stallion was intransigent. “He claims,” she scoffed, “there’s no room in the budget for more spending, but he just spent 120 million bits building himself a new palace. He had the absolute nerve to tell me there’s no money for education while we were in the champagne fountain room!”

“Goodness,” Celestia lifted an ever-so-polite hoof to her muzzle, “was there an actual fountain of champagne?”

“The champagne fountain was a gift from a lobbyist.”

“Ah, well,” Celestia offered a small shrug. “The governor can display personal gifts in the palace if he wants. That’s perfectly legal.”

In leu of an answer, Twilight’s offered a withering stare. Celestia attempted to drink her tea, but found the liquid made bitter by the force of Twilight’s acidic expression, and it was with a sigh she lowered her cup back to its saucer. “Twilight, what specifically are you asking me to do? I don’t override gubernatorial decisions, it would violate a thousand years of custom. I can write him a polite letter asking him to consider more funding for education, or I can sack him.”

“Sacking him would be great, actually,” Twilight offered. “Preferably with an actual sack.”

“Governor Turn Crank has been re-elected four times,” Celestia replied, words faintly clipped, “Each time by a comfortable majority. If memory serves, he won his last election with over 70% of the vote. His ponies are happy with his administration. How shall I explain to them that I have overturned their traditional right to choose their own leaders?”

“They only re-elected him because they’re brainwashed!” Twilight insisted. “There isn’t a newspaper in Ponyville whose editor isn’t one of his lackeys. Even the Foal Free Press! On the day he announced that students would have to pay for their own extracurricular activities, Diamond Tiara ran a puff piece about his daughter’s wonderful birthday party.”

“Oh, so you want me to take away the ponies right to choose their leaders, but only because they’re too dim-witted and gullible to do it themselves?” It was Celestia’s turn for acidic words, and it was with a certain turn of her muzzle that she sipped her tea. “Twilight, I am not that kind of princess, and I certainly hope you aren’t going to be either.”

“But-”

Yet, Celestia cut her off. “Empathy is not an innate quality a pony possesses. It is a lifelong commitment, an active effort to understand ponies even when you do not agree with them. I hear the frustration in your voice, and I understand it, but frustration in a ruler can all too easily turn to arrogance and condescension. You should not think yourself better that the ponies around you, and you may not override their decisions because you believe they will eventually come around to acknowledging you were right all along.”

Celestia’s teacup, empty, hit the saucer with a clatter. “I’m sorry, Twilight. But if you want to run the Everfree Region your way, you’re going to have to convince its ponies that you deserve the right.”



“PRINCESS TWILIGHT FOR GOVERN-,” two artist ponies held up the draft banner between them, the writing on the far right side melting away into loose paint at the edge of the canvas.

“Lemme guess,” Applejack pointed at the space where the absent letters should have been. They were all gathered in the map room of Twilight’s crystal castle, and her voice echoed off the hard walls. “You ran out of room?”

“Ugh,” Rainbow rolled her eyes. “Drop the ‘Princess’ at the front. Everypony already knows she’s the princess and the banner is too long as it is. ‘Twilight for Governor,’ it's simple.”

“Too simple,” Rarity offered, hooves steepled and expression thoughtful. “It needs… something. Like a tagline. Twilight for governor, restoring dignity to the Everfree!”

“Twilight for governor!” Pinkie Pie chirped. “Because Turn Crank is a big meanie!”

“Twilight for governor,” Fluttershy suggested. “Because she has saved the world like, ten times and everypony literally owes her their lives?”

“Oh,” Twilight waved off Fluttershy’s suggestion. “I don’t want to feel like I’m telling ponies what they owe me. What about, ‘Twilight for Governor: Adequate Funding for Education’?”

Silence hung in the map room, eventually broken by Starlight Glimmer clearing her throat. The map room table had exactly six chairs, so she was sitting in a folding chair she’d pulled up between Twilight and Rarity.

“We’ll get back to you,” she told the artist ponies, who gratefully departed with their incomplete banner. “Twilight, we all agree education is important, but you can’t campaign on a single issue. The Governor’s office has sweeping powers -- it sets regional taxes, runs utilities and state industries, funds the police, appoints judges. You need to show you’re ready to address ponies' concerns on a range of topics.”

“Like… what?” Twilight hesitated. “Corruption or… lowering taxes?”

From her saddlebag, Starlight produced a bundle of papers. “I commissioned an opinion poll to find out what ponies want in a leader. We surveyed 122 ponies in the greater Ponyville area, and it looks like ponies' biggest concerns are Griffons Stealing Jobs, Childhood Obesity, and Ghosts.”

For a moment, Twilight was silent. Starlight offered the paper, and she levitated it across the gap, until Twilight could look at the poll results herself. She flipped back and forth between the pages several times, and slowly bit her lip as she accepted the reality of what she was seeing.

“And by ‘Ghosts’ they mean…?”

“Ghosts,” Starlight clarified. “Ponies are very concerned the government isn’t doing enough about ghosts.”

“But ghosts aren’t real.”

Rarity’s hoof hit the table. “Darling, that’s exactly the sort of statement Governor Turn Crank would make, and that’s why a frightening 11% of the population lists ghosts as their #1 issue! Turn Crank simply isn’t doing enough to address these citizens' concerns. But you have an opportunity to distinguish yourself.”

“By…” Twilight looked from Rarity, to Starlight, then back to the paper. “Saying ghosts are real?”

“What?” Applejack scoffed. “Don’t be silly. That’s the plum stupidest thing I ever heard. Who would vote for a mare who says the government’s biggest concern is ghosts?”

“Yeah, you need to like…” Rainbow made a vague gesture, involving two hooves and both wings, as though grasping an oblong object. “Weasel around it, you know? Like, don’t say ghosts are real, but say you really liked the Ghostbusters movie. Or decorate your house with crystals and other stupid hippie stuff.”

“Rainbow, my house is made of crystals.”

By some as yet unknown physical means, Applejack snapped a hoof and pointed at Twilight. “That’s good. We can use that. Starlight write that down.”

“Okay, okay,” feeling the tension build in her torso, wings fluffing out by her sides, Twilight shuffled the papers before her in no particular order. “Why don’t we move on from the ghosts issue for now? Jobs being offshored to Griffonstone feels like a much more substantive concern. Ponies must be worried about losing their livelihoods.”

“Oh,” Starlight coughed. “No. I mean, they’re not worried about offshoring. They’re worried that griffons will steal their jobs. Like…”

With a hoof, Starlight slowly mimicked the action of stealing something from in front of Twilight, slipping the invisible object into her saddlebags. “You know. Like that.”

“How…” Twilight’s hoof went to her forehead. “How could a griffon possibly steal a job?”

“Who knows?” Applejack asked. “They’re tricky critters, let me tell you.”

In the heavy silence that followed, Twilight stared across the gap between her and Applejack, eyes narrow, gaze penetrating. She sought an answer, yet at the same time feared to recieve it. She begged for a hint of the truth, even as she shied away, in her head screaming: You are joking, right?

But in the end, she turned back to the survey: “What’s the issue with childhood obesity?”

“We don’t have enough of it.”