The Last Party
I know I’m dying.
I couldn’t tell you how I know. Chalk it up to some supernatural sense or maybe just me being me. It doesn’t really matter, I’m dying and that’s a fact.
My friends wouldn’t take it well. Twilight would dive into her precious books or ask her princess for an answer, an out, some way to prevent this. It isn’t there. I’m dying.
Rainbow wouldn’t believe it, of course. She never faces anything she doesn’t want to see, that’s just how she is. I love her for it, but denial won’t help. I’m dying.
Fluttershy would just be sad. She’d fade into the background, not wanting to take up my last few moments when the others might want them. Her self-sacrifice is beautiful, and saddening. She could help so many ponies if she just asserted herself more. But she can’t help me, I’m dying.
Applejack would take it the best, I think. She’s the Element of Honesty after all, uncomfortable truths are her specialty. She’d face it with me, not flinching, not running away, just accepting it. I like that, but it’s too cold for me, too hard to face this without flinching, and I’m the one that’s dying.
Rarity…I don’t even know how Rarity would take it. She’s often melodramatic, but not about the things that really matter. She can display an incredible amount of common sense sometimes. Maybe she would take it well, with the right amount of compassion and confidence that everything will be okay. It wouldn’t change anything anyway, I’m still dying.
And how would I take it? How am I taking it? I’m dealing with it the same way I deal with everything.
I’m going to throw a party.
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If it weren’t for all my years of practice I couldn’t have set this party up in time. I guess there’s a reason I’m the premier party pony after all. It’s huge, bigger than any I’ve ever thrown. Everypony in Ponyville is here, absolutely everypony. Somepony else would think it odd that everypony happened to be free to come to my party tonight, but I don’t. I’m too used to the world bending over backwards to make sure my crazy plans come through.
I named this party, just like I do every party. Some are birthday parties, some are welcome parties, and some are we-haven’t-had-a-party-in-a-while parties. For each I hang a banner, so everypony knows its name. This banner says ‘Pinkie’s death-day party’.
It’s close to Nightmare Night so they all think it’s a joke of some kind. I’m glad, this way they know the truth and can enjoy my party anyway. That’s the best way for us to spend this evening. My last evening. Because I’m dying.
A pony I haven’t seen before enters. I should think it odd, I know everypony in Ponyville after all, but I don’t. The pony is black, not dark blue like Luna or jet black like Nightmare Moon, just a simple understated black. She has an empty white hourglass for a cutie mark and I know she’s here for me.
I avoid her. I know it’s rude but I think she’ll forgive me. She has to, since we’re going to be spending such a long time together.
The party is great. The best I’ve ever thrown, and I’m the life of it. Refilling drinks, playing games, introducing ponies to one another, and watching new friendships blossom. I glide through it all, like a bird in the air, a fish in the sea, this is my place. I manage everything, guiding everypony to the perfect night.
It’s the quintessential party, a party boiled down to its ideal essence, like a beautiful symphony played perfectly, as only its composer can envision. I am that composer and this is my music, my masterpiece. It has to be, it’s my last chance, because I’m dying.
The party doesn’t linger past its time, I don’t let it. I know that the worst way to ruin a party is to drag it out, trying to preserve a feeling that was always meant to be fleeting. Each guest is carefully watched, guided to exit just as their enjoyment peaks. This way the afterglow lingers for hours, maybe even days when I time it just right. They’ll all remember this way, they’ll all remember this night and know that it was something magical, something more than any other party could ever have been, and so they’ll remember me.
The music grows softer. The chatter dies down, and all the extra ponies have said their last goodbyes. There are seven of us left, myself, my friends, and the black pony. They don’t notice they’re the only ones still here, so cleverly have I arranged this emotional crescendo.
I’m feeling faint now. Coldness is building at the ends of my limbs. I could, perhaps have lasted longer if I had horded my energy, preserving every precious second of it like a dragon with his horde. But that’s not my way, I burned brightly in life and I will flare out, burning through everything in one last perfect evening.
Rarity’s divan is near and I sink into it. I don’t know how, or why, she brought it all the way here, but it’s what I need right now. Perhaps she knew I would need it. They say I act unpredictably but I’m not the only who has hidden depths.
The composer has left the stand and the orchestra, the audience, my friends, feel the loss of direction. They cluster around, asking if I’m okay.
I’m not. I know I’m not, and I say as much. It takes them a minute. Twilight’s the first to understand, of course. She looks around, takes in the banner that still proclaims my death-day, takes in my own tired face, takes in the black pony with the empty hourglass, and then she knows.
The others are slower, but they get their on their own, without speaking. Except for Rainbow, she always refused to see certain things. She’s no fool; she sees the same clues as the others. She looks at the banner, at the black pony, at me. But she won’t, or can’t, or won’t, put it all together. Her voice is pleading. ‘It’s a joke’, she begs, ‘a joke for nightmare night, right? A great prank, but it’s over now, right? Come on. Get up. Please.’ But I can’t get up. I’m dying.
The black pony walks closer, and Twilight tries to bar her path. It won’t do any good. She speaks to me, to all of us. ‘I am Charon, the ferry-mare. It’s time now, we have to go.’ I look to my friends, to her, and back to my friends.
‘Remember me,’ I tell them, or ask them, or beg them, I’m not really sure anymore. ‘Remember the sweet sound of our laughter, echoing across town. Remember to throw parties and bake cupcakes. If I’m not here, then you all have to fill my place, so remember me. Smile and I’ll smile with you, no matter where I am or where you are. We will be together again, all of us. I promise, cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.’
They hug me, all of them. When I was lonely, long ago, and they brought back my happiness, I reached out, farther than any pony could, and brought them all close. I don’t have the strength to do that anymore, but its okay, they come to me. They hold me tightly and their warmth permeates, just a little, my chilled and fading body. I smile at them one last time. They are strong, my friends, they hold back their tears.
It’s time. Charon takes my hoof and lifts and I leave my body behind. We drift upward, through the roof, toward the stars. I look back and see their tears. I shouldn’t have looked back. They were strong until my end and I should have respected that, I shouldn’t have seen them crying. But I suppose it doesn’t matter, because I’m dead.
There’s one last thing to do though. I turn to my dark guide and call her name. She faces me and her eyes look tired. She’s made this trip so many times, with so many ponies. They try and hurt her now, I’m sure. Try and fight her off, or bribe her, or cajole her, anything they can think of to get her to turn back. And there’s nothing she can do. She can’t let them turn back, no matter how much she might want to. She’s as trapped by this as any of us. There’s nothing in her eyes as she turns to me, not even sadness, not even fear, just emptiness.
I don’t like to see emptiness in anypony, not even her. Especially not her. So I perform my last miracle: I reach into nothing and offer her a cupcake. ‘For you’ I say.
My offer is misunderstood, met with a shaking head, she can’t accept bribes. ‘For you’ I repeat. ‘To make you smile.’
Another moment of hesitation but she takes it, and takes a bite. I see a tear in her eye as she turns away and finishes the pastry. She turns back and offers me a small vulnerable smile. ‘No pony has ever given me a gift before’, she says, ‘I didn’t think anypony could. I didn’t think anypony would want to. How did you do that? Why did you do that?’
‘There’s one answer to both those questions’ I say, and I smile back.
‘I’m Pinkie Pie.’