If you were so broken, so helpless that you could barely keep your head up, you simply had to sew yourself together. It was a simple matter, an exercise in patience, tolerance, and of course, beauty. It was hard, and it hurt, but it was so, so worth it.
The needle moved quickly, lit in the pale blue light of Rarity’s magic and threaded with the finest white silk. It would be hard to see, but it was so much better not having to explain to those of closed minds why on earth she had stitches crossing her coat, and saying she’d cut herself only went so far as an excuse (even when it was true). No, this was much better, was safer and prettier and much more suited to Rarity’s special talent. After all, what could possibly be wrong with sewing pretty patterns into her own coat?
She started with a heart around her cutie mark, each stitch small and perfect and symmetrical, the two halves of the heart curling around the three blue diamonds. Blood flowered to the surface, dotting her coat and accenting the colors of her mane and cutie mark so perfectly, and why hadn’t she done this before? Cutting was all well and good, and all the thousand other little things she’d done to hurt herself, to punish herself for mistakes and purge herself of imperfections, but this was… well. Needless to say, she would be doing this again whenever she needed to get out stress, to make herself feel better, and it didn’t even carry any of the nasty side effects or uncleanliness that clopping would. No, this was pure. The pain was pure.
Next came elegantly curling lines, fleur de lis’s curving away from the heart on her flank. They ended in perfect little spirals, tied off in knots at each end. At this point, she could barely feel each prick, the pain fading into a cleansing, white fire that sat just above her breastbone, and each drop of blood that her heart drove out of her body made her feel lighter, more free of her earthly concerns. She was flying high, and she didn’t even have wings again.
But she should! Her flank was covered, but her barrel and sides were blessedly free, and with her unicorn telekinesis she didn’t even have the nasty problem of not being able to reach. Tiny stitches at first, then longer, all attached into pretty wings, alicorn sized and folded at her sides. As she laid the final stitch into her coat, she could almost feel them stretch, the feathers ruffling and moving together. The threads of each design were starting to stain pink, but that was alright. Pink went wonderfully with her purple and white color scheme, and she could always just wear clothes to cover the telltale stitches. It would be her little secret, all the more special for it, and no one could tell her to stop if they simply didn’t know.
She couldn’t stop now, not until her whole coat was covered in beautiful stitches and she was held together, all of her anxiety and worries and drama kept in by silk threads, strong and secure and holding her together. Stitching her together, in fact. Like a dress. She was her own finest masterpiece, a vision of white velvet, with sapphire fixtures and violet accents, and pink threads through the whole thing to add a splash of color.
Diamonds on the lapel would do nicely for her next addition, three perfect shapes sewn onto her breast complete with facets. It was always so special when an artiste went to the extra trouble to put a specific cutie mark in a piece, designed something specifically for one pony. It took that piece to the next level, put love into it and made it so much better, and was a good aesthetic besides. She couldn’t go wrong with a copy of her cutie mark sewn in blood-reddened thread on her snowy breast, couldn’t even make it look bad. She was just getting more and more beautiful, and the more pain she felt, the better she felt, hollowed out and scorched of all her anguish.
The final touch was curving patterns up her legs, mandalas and patterns twining around the alabaster columns, accenting the curves and leading the eye to believe that they were so much longer, alicorn-esque, if you would, and Rarity would. She stepped in front of the mirror, dropping the bloody needle to the workbench with a clatter, and admired herself, letting her eye travel over the elegant curves of the stitches, the lines crossing her flank, the wings folded on her barrel. She looked perfect, and she felt perfect too.
It didn’t matter that when Sweetie Belle came home from school, she was horrified, asked what she’d done to herself, didn’t understand the fashion aesthetic that Rarity had done to herself. It really didn’t matter that her sister then tattled on her to her friends, told Princess Twilight and the rest of those fools that Rarity had been hurting herself. They just didn’t understand. She felt better this way, looked better too, and the next time she went out of the boutique she didn’t bother to cover her careful craftsmareship. Ponies stopped and stared, ogled the pink threads sewn through her white coat and flesh, and she drank in their attentions. They should stare, should appreciate her pain and effort and beauty.
Everything was fine. She was beautiful. She had sewn herself together, and she would do it again if need be. The princesses spoke to her about it, but Luna? Luna understood. Luna showed her her own scars, careful patterns and crescent moon bitemarks carved out of a predator’s grin. At least someone appreciated her, wouldn’t let them lock her up. They’d tried to do that when they’d seen her, seen the things she’d done to herself before and the diaries she’d written. But she had royal protection, and she was a noble in her own right thanks to the Element of Harmony she represented. She would just have to explain, that was all, give them some of the blessed pain and be generous, be a good pony and help her friends be the best they could be. It was the right thing to do, and she always did the right thing.
