Fifteen Pagesby NaiadSagaIotaOarChaptersIIIVVIVIIXXIIXVIIIIVVIIIIXXIXIIIXIVIIThe second page was somewhat different from the rest, marked by few letters. The page would have been pitifully ordinary if it had been filled with something so commonplace as letters—and the day it was filled in was as far from normal as it could have been. So, on this page, there were drawings. Sketches, really—feeling more than thinking. There were grand, sweeping mountains and castles of gleaming gold. The sun shone overhead, peaking through misty morning clouds and raining glorious yellow on a field of lush green. The drawings themselves were… less than masterful. The hand that drew them was used to flowing gowns, not sprawling landscapes. But that hadn’t mattered. At the top, in that same graceful script that filled the rest of the diary, were the words that had prompted it all: “I know it’s probably hard for you to believe, but I come from a world where there’s magic and dragons and palaces, and one day, I’m going to be its queen.” On this page, there was scrawled a flight of fancy, a vision of dreamy delights. A storybook paradise, only this one was real. And though it was a whole world away, it had felt close enough to touch, that day that it had been drawn. But the castles were not the most important part. The mountains weren’t either, and the sun was a pretty—but trifling—bauble. The real centerpiece of the drawings were the two scratchy silhouettes that ran, hand-in-hand, from a swirling vortex of color. The silhouettes bore few features, but one was marked with deep, luxurious purple, and the other with fiery scarlet slashed with yellow. IVThe third of Rarity’s pages came quite some time after the second. Many pages came between the two, tracking the passage of months, documenting the beginnings of a friendship. Those pages held little of note. Dawdling mundanities, to put it simply—Sunset was a foreigner of the highest degree, after all, and it took no small amount of time for her to get her bearings. But then, one night, there was this page. Sunset and I had a talk earlier tonight. There was a scrawl in the rough shape of a stylized heart perched atop Sunset’s name. She told me more about herself, finally. All the times I’ve known her, she’s felt so cold, so withdrawn… And she’s hurting. She told me more of her story and oh, how painfully tragic it was! She’s straight out of a romance novel, honestly. But then we talked some more. About our dreams. About what we’d do to make them come true. I’ve never seen her look so animate. She was learning magic from a princess so powerful she raised the sun and the moon every day. Sunset wants nothing more than to be just as powerful as that princess. But when she told the princess of her desire, she was spurned. Pushed away. How cold must you be to crush someone’s dreams like that? I sympathized with her, of course—how would I feel if someone demanded I stop sewing? It was amazing. I felt like we understood each other, even though our worlds couldn’t be more unlike one another. She said much the same, actually. And she looked so happy when she did, like she’d been wanting to say that all her life. The handwriting started to devolve a little at this point. The curves grew just slightly scratchy and cluttered—far from ugly, but the haste and lack of care made themselves known. And then she kissed me. Her. A princess’ student. Kissed me. I’m amazed I didn’t faint on the spot. We didn’t say much more, after that. I had to get home. I… didn’t know what to say. How was I supposed to? I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow, I suppose. VIThe fifth page was a somewhat peculiar one. It chronicled endings that prompted beginnings—and such turbulent times were always burdened by uncertainty, which seeped into the page. Lyra and Bon Bon had a fight today. A big one, right in front of everyone, during the lunch break. Those first two sentences were not so different from most others in the diary. From there, though, the script grew jittery. I still can’t believe it. Just—what was it, a week ago?—they’d seemed joined at the hip. Even Sunset liked seeing them together. Right before the Spring Fling, too. I haven’t spoken to either of them about it. Sunset and I agreed we should give them some space for a few days. She seemed anxious—Sunset did. Perhaps she was worried the same might happen to us? More was thought, but left unwritten—pushed aside and meant to be quelled, but allowed to fester. VIIThe sixth page bore signs of a distracted hand—before there were words pressed onto this page, there were drawings of glittering crowns. It was understandable; one such object had been sitting close by the page while it was filled. And the writing, while still neat, wobbled just a bit, for it was difficult to giggle and keep a steady pen—but it was important to preserve the night’s events before memory faded, so diary and pen had been snatched up swiftly after the bedroom door closed. That was the best. Night. Ever! I’d never have guessed Sunset was such a good dancer. She seemed… competent, when I was showing her the basics a little while ago. Did she practice by herself? Just for me? Oh, she shouldn’t have, but of course she did! Hearts marked the margin of the page around there. Perhaps there were more minutiae of the night to describe, but the basics had been put down, and once that had been accomplished, lounging and daydreaming seemed more than adequate. For a while, anyway. This page was written in two intervals. Both came from realms of emotion, but the second was slightly tempered, time ushering in little slivers of logic. But something about the people there, it just bothered me. The way they looked at each other—I spotted a few girls whose names had been on the ballot, and they were all glaring at each other. I’ve never seen that before. Not at CHS. People there are always so friendly, even when it’s time for a little competition. Sunset said I shouldn’t worry about it. XThe ninth page was one of the wordiest. There had been many thoughts to sift through, and many conclusions sought. Well. I suppose that didn’t go awfully. It took me most of the day to work up the nerve to speak to her about it—is there ever an easy way to tell someone you love you’re worried about them? I hope not, else I’ve clearly done something wrong. “Have you seen Lyra recently?” I’d inquired as we were leaving school. The sidewalk’s quiet, but not quite intimate. Sunset said she’d seen her around, she supposed, but only from afar. Nothing to fuss over. We talked about it a bit more. And, eventually, I asked her if she knew what happened the day of that ghastly lover’s quarrel. It took Sunset a moment to answer. She asked why I was interested. I told her I was curious and loved to gossip—which is entirely true, not that that helped. Sometimes I wish I could read her better. Goodness knows it’s a thrill to always be surprised, but just once, I wish I could’ve just peaked in her head and had all the answers right in the palm of my hand. But when she’s such a mystery to me, I suppose it’s only fair I hold something back myself now and then, is it not? Of course it is. I digress. She said she didn’t know what happened. That she hoped it was nothing too serious, and that they were doing well. That she’d thought about talking to them, but wasn’t sure she’d be wanted—neither of us knew them very well, all things considered. At the time, I felt so happy. So relieved. Maybe that’s to be expected. I was with her, after all. I told her we should still perhaps try talking to them, though. It’s the least we can do, is it not? I would not be myself if matters of the heart brought someone pain and I did nothing but watch. XIIThe other diary in the house was the opposite of Rarity’s in many ways: it had scuffs around the edges where Rarity’s was pristine, it had colorful stickers to fill its pages and brighten the cover where Rarity’s had minimalistically elegant filigree, and its pages tended to shy away from the verbosity of Rarity’s. But on one particular day, not too long after Rarity’s tenth page had been filled, that last trend reversed. Rarity was really upset today. She didn’t want to say anything, but I could tell. As soon as she got back home, she went straight to her room and hasn’t come out since then. I think I could hear her crying. I wish she’d tell me what was going on. She seemed fine earlier this week, but then a few days ago, I saw her talking to Bon Bon after school and she looked all pale and stuff. I guess maybe she’s sad because Lyra’s in the hospital? I know a lot of people are, after she got hit by a car the other day. She’s pretty nice, and I think most people like her. XVAnd now. The last page. In front of Canterlot High School, there was a statue of a horse, stood atop a rectangular pedestal of stone. And, scattered across the ground in front of the pedestal, shards of glass twinkled under the starlight. Little jagged mirrors, dropped in disarray. A few were marked with small drops of blood. The sledgehammer leaning against the pedestal was much the same. As was this last page. Glass was such a dangerous substance. It hurts, the words on the page say. I hoped it wouldn’t, but I think I knew it would. But it’s done. A corner of the page was crumpled—a weary brow had fallen upon it, labored breaths warming the paper. I hope I don’t miss her. IIn the corner of Rarity’s bedroom, there was a diary, hidden away in a drawer. It was a small book, violet in color—though splashed with floral gold on the edges. It had a little lock, meant more for ornamentation than security. This book was not the first of its kind to reside in that room. Rarity had been keeping one diary after another for as long as she could remember. Ladies carried themselves with decorum, and sometimes that meant tactful, measured silence. But Rarity still had thoughts, and when there was no proper way to speak them aloud, she wrote them down, collected and articulated. But this diary, this most recent one, was of particular importance. Within it, there resided thirteen pages. That is not to say there were only those thirteen, but those thirteen were the interesting ones. Interesting enough, in fact, to warrant description. The first of these pages was distinct only for its contents, which at the time had felt quite peculiar indeed compared to those of its predecessors—but time and life have their ways, and work wonders at dulling peculiarities. Like most of its kindred, the first page was covered in flowing script, swooping curls of glistening black ink penned by a precise, caring hand that prized beauty over function. These letters were not meant to be seen by those unaccustomed to their eccentricities. It has been a most unusual evening, the script said. I met a girl earlier. She… oh, it feels so strange even just writing it. But I know what I saw: she tumbled right out of the statue in front of the school. As if the wall was water! I’d never seen anything quite like it, but my eyes did not deceive me. As for the girl, “eccentric” is a dangerous word, but I can’t think of a more fitting one. She’s lucid, as far as I can tell, but she acted like she had no idea where she was. And her mannerisms were odd, too; she twitched and lurched like she didn’t know how to stand. And, well, I couldn’t let someone so confused go off on her own, could I? She said she’ll tell me more when she’s feeling better. We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow, I suppose. I’m not sure what to think of her. She’s quite pretty, though. Scandalous, I know. Maybe I can talk her into letting me brush her hair in the morning… IIIRarity was known for being quite meticulous in many uses of her time, but not all. Who was not allowed to be a little careless now and then, when it concerned matters that deserved nothing more? So not every thought to cross Rarity’s head made it into her diary. She made sure to at least write something in it every single day, so as to keep a map of her life with… reasonable completion—she was going to be quite famous one day, and surely then everybody would want to know all about her—but surely not every little thing was worth remembering. And of course, some days she felt more of a writing mood than others. Fortunately, there was another diary in the house, and occasionally it filled in some of the gaps left in Rarity’s. This one was not quite as neat, and the writing inside not quite so pretty, but in the story of Rarity’s thirteen pages, two from this other diary deserve mention. This is the first one. Rarity made a new friend the other day. Her name’s Sunset, I think…? I haven’t spoken to her much, so I don’t know her very well. It’s like Rarity won’t leave her alone even for a second! Ugh. I think Rarity said she’s from out of town, so I guess it makes sense she’s getting lots of help and stuff, but it’s kind of annoying. Whenever I see them together, Rarity’s all smiley and giggly and happy, but it’s like she doesn’t want to share any of that with me. Stupid Sunset. What’s so cool about her? My hand’s starting to cramp. How does Rarity write like this for so long? VThe fourth page, when looked at with sufficient distance, would not seem so noteworthy. Indeed, if that page were the only one to discuss, the tale of the diary’s pages would not be a tale at all. It would be an anecdote on a footnote, dismissed by all but a very rare few. But it did not stand in isolation. It was one of a set, and so it deserved mention. Two weeks, the letters spelled, across the top of the page. Two weeks until the Spring Fling. How did that happen? It always felt so distant, but now it’s right on top of me. It feels so… trite, now. I suppose that’s to be expected; I’ve met a girl who’s a stone’s throw from being an actual princess. Why should I care so much about being a pretend one? I haven’t even put my name on the ballot yet. Sunset says I should—I might. But I don’t know if I can see myself winning. I’ve heard people talking. It feels like half the school wants Lyra to win, and why shouldn’t they? She’s such a delight by herself, but oh, think of how lovely it’d be for her and Bon Bon, the sweetest couple of CHS, to get the spotlight for just one night! I’m getting excited just thinking about it! Even Sunset seemed to like the idea. It’s so hard to know what she’s thinking—all part of the thrill, I suppose; she’s so mysterious. But she was smiling, even, and how often does she do that? (Not often, though I think she has gotten better at faking it—I’m such a bad influence) But Sunset also said she’d like to see me getting that crown. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to put my name forward, could it? VIIIThe seventh page was a perfunctory love letter to the second. Here, that dreamscape made it return, with all its castles and mountains—but this time it was half-formed, the excitement sporadic. Sunset and I had a talk today. The portal she came through, when she left her world—she says it’s going to open again, in just a few months. And she wants me to come back with her. She didn’t ask me to make a decision just yet. There’s still time, after all. But how in the world could I say no to that? Below that last sentence, the paper is scratched and stained—marks of ink left by a dithering, indecisive pen, like bolts of fabric cut but never touched by a needle. Putting words to a page had a way of making them real: sometimes, that was a frightening thought. I’d regret it if I said no. A chance like this—how could I live with myself if I turned it down? IXThe eighth page was a mess. A whole paragraph was covered up by censoring scrawls, uncharacteristically frantic. The diary was meant to be authentic; scattered thoughts, lacking conviction, had no place among those pages. Focus, Rarity. You’ve been waiting your whole life for a romance like this, haven’t you? Maybe it’s complicated, but you are more than capable of navigating it. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be a sweltering romance if it didn’t have some pain to it, would it? The ink making up those first few sentences had set and dried long before any more were written, scrutinized keenly before any continuation was allowed. I have some concerns. About Sunset. There, I said it. I suppose I’ve had them for a while, now. The way she treats me is fine. I wouldn’t change a thing, on that front. Goodness, why would I? She’s one of the most charming people I’ve ever met. The rest of the students seemed to think so, too, for a while. But now, occasionally, I’ve heard things. Nasty things. And I can’t stop thinking about Lyra. I don’t even know what I’m accusing anyone of. But I worry. And I can’t stop thinking about that offer Sunset made me. It’s the chance of a lifetime—there’s not another soul anywhere in the world who could make me an offer like that. On the bottom corner of the page, there was a single, small blotch of discoloration. It had come in isolation—a break had been taken from writing, and tissues and ice cream made a rudimentary antidote. But I can’t accept it unless I’m sure. I’m going to talk her. And if my doubts are put to rest… then, and only then, will I go back with her. XIOnly a day after the ninth page had been filled, pen was put to paper on the tenth page. It’s been a few months since Sunset talked about that offer she’d made me, but she brought it up again today. She asked me how I was feeling about it now, if I’d changed my mind since that first talk. “I don’t want to pressure you,” she’d said. “But I can’t wait to go back, and there’s so much of that world I want to show you.” I didn’t answer, not right away. I said I’d been thinking about it. Asked what it was we’d be doing once we got there. Anything but give a straight answer. And she gave the most Sunset answer she could have given. “Right now, there’s only one princess in charge, over there,” she said. “But you know what they say about two heads...” She didn’t even need to spell anything out, and already she made it all sound so wonderful. Goodness, she makes me feel so bubbly and… young. Of course she does—she’s making me want to be a princess. And the way she talked about it, it was like it was just around the corner, that all I had to do was take her hand and there’d be a crown on my head. We didn’t talk about it much more, that day, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was hoping we’d get a chance to speak again on the walk home, but, well… it was so sweet of Sunset to walk with Lyra that afternoon instead, so I resigned myself to waiting a little while. XIIIThe eleventh page is marked in several place with dark blotches—once watery and damp, but now dry, albeit crumpled and discolored. Had there been ink under those blotches, it would have been muddied and smeared. On another page, those blotches would have been a disaster. Here, though, they were of little consequence, for there was, on this page, only a single sentence, penned at the top of the page—neatly, because a lady did not abandon decency for anything so trivial as tears. It was a promise; an oddly solemn thing, to be scribbled in a diary, but there it was secret yet bindingly permanent. I need to break up with Sunset. XIVAfter the eleventh page, there was a stretch of three almost-blank ones. Dates had been put on corners, and a pen had been gripped, but no words had come. Thoughts had been muddled, as hard to parse as an unknown language. But then, at last, there was the twelfth page. I’ve heard people saying that Lyra’s not going to be able to walk anymore. There’s no reasoning behind it, I’m sure—the worst news is the most sensational. Tomorrow night, the portal to Sunset’s home will open again. Sunset and I will be able to go through. She’s spent the last few days talking it over with me. Planning things out. She can’t be sure how Princess Celestia will react to her return, but it’s imperative their meeting go smoothly. “We’re dealing with somebody who raises and lowers the sun each day,” Sunset reminded me. It was strange, hearing her talking about Celestia. It used to be she couldn’t do that without twisting her face into the most horrid scowl or breaking down into tears. But now, she was so focused. So intense. She outlined all Celestia’s faults—the princess was arrogant, selfish, oppressive; she adored her throne and her stature and her power and scorned those who might challenge it. She put on a warm, motherly mask, but underneath it she was old. Stagnant. Bitter. I don’t know if it’s true. But Sunset believes it. And she looked at me, right into my eyes, and said that she needed my help. That the dreams she’d been chasing her whole life were out there, hovering out of her reach but within ours. That together, we could overthrow Celestia. What can she get me to agree to, I wonder?
IIThe second page was somewhat different from the rest, marked by few letters. The page would have been pitifully ordinary if it had been filled with something so commonplace as letters—and the day it was filled in was as far from normal as it could have been. So, on this page, there were drawings. Sketches, really—feeling more than thinking. There were grand, sweeping mountains and castles of gleaming gold. The sun shone overhead, peaking through misty morning clouds and raining glorious yellow on a field of lush green. The drawings themselves were… less than masterful. The hand that drew them was used to flowing gowns, not sprawling landscapes. But that hadn’t mattered. At the top, in that same graceful script that filled the rest of the diary, were the words that had prompted it all: “I know it’s probably hard for you to believe, but I come from a world where there’s magic and dragons and palaces, and one day, I’m going to be its queen.” On this page, there was scrawled a flight of fancy, a vision of dreamy delights. A storybook paradise, only this one was real. And though it was a whole world away, it had felt close enough to touch, that day that it had been drawn. But the castles were not the most important part. The mountains weren’t either, and the sun was a pretty—but trifling—bauble. The real centerpiece of the drawings were the two scratchy silhouettes that ran, hand-in-hand, from a swirling vortex of color. The silhouettes bore few features, but one was marked with deep, luxurious purple, and the other with fiery scarlet slashed with yellow.
IVThe third of Rarity’s pages came quite some time after the second. Many pages came between the two, tracking the passage of months, documenting the beginnings of a friendship. Those pages held little of note. Dawdling mundanities, to put it simply—Sunset was a foreigner of the highest degree, after all, and it took no small amount of time for her to get her bearings. But then, one night, there was this page. Sunset and I had a talk earlier tonight. There was a scrawl in the rough shape of a stylized heart perched atop Sunset’s name. She told me more about herself, finally. All the times I’ve known her, she’s felt so cold, so withdrawn… And she’s hurting. She told me more of her story and oh, how painfully tragic it was! She’s straight out of a romance novel, honestly. But then we talked some more. About our dreams. About what we’d do to make them come true. I’ve never seen her look so animate. She was learning magic from a princess so powerful she raised the sun and the moon every day. Sunset wants nothing more than to be just as powerful as that princess. But when she told the princess of her desire, she was spurned. Pushed away. How cold must you be to crush someone’s dreams like that? I sympathized with her, of course—how would I feel if someone demanded I stop sewing? It was amazing. I felt like we understood each other, even though our worlds couldn’t be more unlike one another. She said much the same, actually. And she looked so happy when she did, like she’d been wanting to say that all her life. The handwriting started to devolve a little at this point. The curves grew just slightly scratchy and cluttered—far from ugly, but the haste and lack of care made themselves known. And then she kissed me. Her. A princess’ student. Kissed me. I’m amazed I didn’t faint on the spot. We didn’t say much more, after that. I had to get home. I… didn’t know what to say. How was I supposed to? I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow, I suppose.
VIThe fifth page was a somewhat peculiar one. It chronicled endings that prompted beginnings—and such turbulent times were always burdened by uncertainty, which seeped into the page. Lyra and Bon Bon had a fight today. A big one, right in front of everyone, during the lunch break. Those first two sentences were not so different from most others in the diary. From there, though, the script grew jittery. I still can’t believe it. Just—what was it, a week ago?—they’d seemed joined at the hip. Even Sunset liked seeing them together. Right before the Spring Fling, too. I haven’t spoken to either of them about it. Sunset and I agreed we should give them some space for a few days. She seemed anxious—Sunset did. Perhaps she was worried the same might happen to us? More was thought, but left unwritten—pushed aside and meant to be quelled, but allowed to fester.
VIIThe sixth page bore signs of a distracted hand—before there were words pressed onto this page, there were drawings of glittering crowns. It was understandable; one such object had been sitting close by the page while it was filled. And the writing, while still neat, wobbled just a bit, for it was difficult to giggle and keep a steady pen—but it was important to preserve the night’s events before memory faded, so diary and pen had been snatched up swiftly after the bedroom door closed. That was the best. Night. Ever! I’d never have guessed Sunset was such a good dancer. She seemed… competent, when I was showing her the basics a little while ago. Did she practice by herself? Just for me? Oh, she shouldn’t have, but of course she did! Hearts marked the margin of the page around there. Perhaps there were more minutiae of the night to describe, but the basics had been put down, and once that had been accomplished, lounging and daydreaming seemed more than adequate. For a while, anyway. This page was written in two intervals. Both came from realms of emotion, but the second was slightly tempered, time ushering in little slivers of logic. But something about the people there, it just bothered me. The way they looked at each other—I spotted a few girls whose names had been on the ballot, and they were all glaring at each other. I’ve never seen that before. Not at CHS. People there are always so friendly, even when it’s time for a little competition. Sunset said I shouldn’t worry about it.
XThe ninth page was one of the wordiest. There had been many thoughts to sift through, and many conclusions sought. Well. I suppose that didn’t go awfully. It took me most of the day to work up the nerve to speak to her about it—is there ever an easy way to tell someone you love you’re worried about them? I hope not, else I’ve clearly done something wrong. “Have you seen Lyra recently?” I’d inquired as we were leaving school. The sidewalk’s quiet, but not quite intimate. Sunset said she’d seen her around, she supposed, but only from afar. Nothing to fuss over. We talked about it a bit more. And, eventually, I asked her if she knew what happened the day of that ghastly lover’s quarrel. It took Sunset a moment to answer. She asked why I was interested. I told her I was curious and loved to gossip—which is entirely true, not that that helped. Sometimes I wish I could read her better. Goodness knows it’s a thrill to always be surprised, but just once, I wish I could’ve just peaked in her head and had all the answers right in the palm of my hand. But when she’s such a mystery to me, I suppose it’s only fair I hold something back myself now and then, is it not? Of course it is. I digress. She said she didn’t know what happened. That she hoped it was nothing too serious, and that they were doing well. That she’d thought about talking to them, but wasn’t sure she’d be wanted—neither of us knew them very well, all things considered. At the time, I felt so happy. So relieved. Maybe that’s to be expected. I was with her, after all. I told her we should still perhaps try talking to them, though. It’s the least we can do, is it not? I would not be myself if matters of the heart brought someone pain and I did nothing but watch.
XIIThe other diary in the house was the opposite of Rarity’s in many ways: it had scuffs around the edges where Rarity’s was pristine, it had colorful stickers to fill its pages and brighten the cover where Rarity’s had minimalistically elegant filigree, and its pages tended to shy away from the verbosity of Rarity’s. But on one particular day, not too long after Rarity’s tenth page had been filled, that last trend reversed. Rarity was really upset today. She didn’t want to say anything, but I could tell. As soon as she got back home, she went straight to her room and hasn’t come out since then. I think I could hear her crying. I wish she’d tell me what was going on. She seemed fine earlier this week, but then a few days ago, I saw her talking to Bon Bon after school and she looked all pale and stuff. I guess maybe she’s sad because Lyra’s in the hospital? I know a lot of people are, after she got hit by a car the other day. She’s pretty nice, and I think most people like her.
XVAnd now. The last page. In front of Canterlot High School, there was a statue of a horse, stood atop a rectangular pedestal of stone. And, scattered across the ground in front of the pedestal, shards of glass twinkled under the starlight. Little jagged mirrors, dropped in disarray. A few were marked with small drops of blood. The sledgehammer leaning against the pedestal was much the same. As was this last page. Glass was such a dangerous substance. It hurts, the words on the page say. I hoped it wouldn’t, but I think I knew it would. But it’s done. A corner of the page was crumpled—a weary brow had fallen upon it, labored breaths warming the paper. I hope I don’t miss her.
IIn the corner of Rarity’s bedroom, there was a diary, hidden away in a drawer. It was a small book, violet in color—though splashed with floral gold on the edges. It had a little lock, meant more for ornamentation than security. This book was not the first of its kind to reside in that room. Rarity had been keeping one diary after another for as long as she could remember. Ladies carried themselves with decorum, and sometimes that meant tactful, measured silence. But Rarity still had thoughts, and when there was no proper way to speak them aloud, she wrote them down, collected and articulated. But this diary, this most recent one, was of particular importance. Within it, there resided thirteen pages. That is not to say there were only those thirteen, but those thirteen were the interesting ones. Interesting enough, in fact, to warrant description. The first of these pages was distinct only for its contents, which at the time had felt quite peculiar indeed compared to those of its predecessors—but time and life have their ways, and work wonders at dulling peculiarities. Like most of its kindred, the first page was covered in flowing script, swooping curls of glistening black ink penned by a precise, caring hand that prized beauty over function. These letters were not meant to be seen by those unaccustomed to their eccentricities. It has been a most unusual evening, the script said. I met a girl earlier. She… oh, it feels so strange even just writing it. But I know what I saw: she tumbled right out of the statue in front of the school. As if the wall was water! I’d never seen anything quite like it, but my eyes did not deceive me. As for the girl, “eccentric” is a dangerous word, but I can’t think of a more fitting one. She’s lucid, as far as I can tell, but she acted like she had no idea where she was. And her mannerisms were odd, too; she twitched and lurched like she didn’t know how to stand. And, well, I couldn’t let someone so confused go off on her own, could I? She said she’ll tell me more when she’s feeling better. We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow, I suppose. I’m not sure what to think of her. She’s quite pretty, though. Scandalous, I know. Maybe I can talk her into letting me brush her hair in the morning…
IIIRarity was known for being quite meticulous in many uses of her time, but not all. Who was not allowed to be a little careless now and then, when it concerned matters that deserved nothing more? So not every thought to cross Rarity’s head made it into her diary. She made sure to at least write something in it every single day, so as to keep a map of her life with… reasonable completion—she was going to be quite famous one day, and surely then everybody would want to know all about her—but surely not every little thing was worth remembering. And of course, some days she felt more of a writing mood than others. Fortunately, there was another diary in the house, and occasionally it filled in some of the gaps left in Rarity’s. This one was not quite as neat, and the writing inside not quite so pretty, but in the story of Rarity’s thirteen pages, two from this other diary deserve mention. This is the first one. Rarity made a new friend the other day. Her name’s Sunset, I think…? I haven’t spoken to her much, so I don’t know her very well. It’s like Rarity won’t leave her alone even for a second! Ugh. I think Rarity said she’s from out of town, so I guess it makes sense she’s getting lots of help and stuff, but it’s kind of annoying. Whenever I see them together, Rarity’s all smiley and giggly and happy, but it’s like she doesn’t want to share any of that with me. Stupid Sunset. What’s so cool about her? My hand’s starting to cramp. How does Rarity write like this for so long?
VThe fourth page, when looked at with sufficient distance, would not seem so noteworthy. Indeed, if that page were the only one to discuss, the tale of the diary’s pages would not be a tale at all. It would be an anecdote on a footnote, dismissed by all but a very rare few. But it did not stand in isolation. It was one of a set, and so it deserved mention. Two weeks, the letters spelled, across the top of the page. Two weeks until the Spring Fling. How did that happen? It always felt so distant, but now it’s right on top of me. It feels so… trite, now. I suppose that’s to be expected; I’ve met a girl who’s a stone’s throw from being an actual princess. Why should I care so much about being a pretend one? I haven’t even put my name on the ballot yet. Sunset says I should—I might. But I don’t know if I can see myself winning. I’ve heard people talking. It feels like half the school wants Lyra to win, and why shouldn’t they? She’s such a delight by herself, but oh, think of how lovely it’d be for her and Bon Bon, the sweetest couple of CHS, to get the spotlight for just one night! I’m getting excited just thinking about it! Even Sunset seemed to like the idea. It’s so hard to know what she’s thinking—all part of the thrill, I suppose; she’s so mysterious. But she was smiling, even, and how often does she do that? (Not often, though I think she has gotten better at faking it—I’m such a bad influence) But Sunset also said she’d like to see me getting that crown. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to put my name forward, could it?
VIIIThe seventh page was a perfunctory love letter to the second. Here, that dreamscape made it return, with all its castles and mountains—but this time it was half-formed, the excitement sporadic. Sunset and I had a talk today. The portal she came through, when she left her world—she says it’s going to open again, in just a few months. And she wants me to come back with her. She didn’t ask me to make a decision just yet. There’s still time, after all. But how in the world could I say no to that? Below that last sentence, the paper is scratched and stained—marks of ink left by a dithering, indecisive pen, like bolts of fabric cut but never touched by a needle. Putting words to a page had a way of making them real: sometimes, that was a frightening thought. I’d regret it if I said no. A chance like this—how could I live with myself if I turned it down?
IXThe eighth page was a mess. A whole paragraph was covered up by censoring scrawls, uncharacteristically frantic. The diary was meant to be authentic; scattered thoughts, lacking conviction, had no place among those pages. Focus, Rarity. You’ve been waiting your whole life for a romance like this, haven’t you? Maybe it’s complicated, but you are more than capable of navigating it. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be a sweltering romance if it didn’t have some pain to it, would it? The ink making up those first few sentences had set and dried long before any more were written, scrutinized keenly before any continuation was allowed. I have some concerns. About Sunset. There, I said it. I suppose I’ve had them for a while, now. The way she treats me is fine. I wouldn’t change a thing, on that front. Goodness, why would I? She’s one of the most charming people I’ve ever met. The rest of the students seemed to think so, too, for a while. But now, occasionally, I’ve heard things. Nasty things. And I can’t stop thinking about Lyra. I don’t even know what I’m accusing anyone of. But I worry. And I can’t stop thinking about that offer Sunset made me. It’s the chance of a lifetime—there’s not another soul anywhere in the world who could make me an offer like that. On the bottom corner of the page, there was a single, small blotch of discoloration. It had come in isolation—a break had been taken from writing, and tissues and ice cream made a rudimentary antidote. But I can’t accept it unless I’m sure. I’m going to talk her. And if my doubts are put to rest… then, and only then, will I go back with her.
XIOnly a day after the ninth page had been filled, pen was put to paper on the tenth page. It’s been a few months since Sunset talked about that offer she’d made me, but she brought it up again today. She asked me how I was feeling about it now, if I’d changed my mind since that first talk. “I don’t want to pressure you,” she’d said. “But I can’t wait to go back, and there’s so much of that world I want to show you.” I didn’t answer, not right away. I said I’d been thinking about it. Asked what it was we’d be doing once we got there. Anything but give a straight answer. And she gave the most Sunset answer she could have given. “Right now, there’s only one princess in charge, over there,” she said. “But you know what they say about two heads...” She didn’t even need to spell anything out, and already she made it all sound so wonderful. Goodness, she makes me feel so bubbly and… young. Of course she does—she’s making me want to be a princess. And the way she talked about it, it was like it was just around the corner, that all I had to do was take her hand and there’d be a crown on my head. We didn’t talk about it much more, that day, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was hoping we’d get a chance to speak again on the walk home, but, well… it was so sweet of Sunset to walk with Lyra that afternoon instead, so I resigned myself to waiting a little while.
XIIIThe eleventh page is marked in several place with dark blotches—once watery and damp, but now dry, albeit crumpled and discolored. Had there been ink under those blotches, it would have been muddied and smeared. On another page, those blotches would have been a disaster. Here, though, they were of little consequence, for there was, on this page, only a single sentence, penned at the top of the page—neatly, because a lady did not abandon decency for anything so trivial as tears. It was a promise; an oddly solemn thing, to be scribbled in a diary, but there it was secret yet bindingly permanent. I need to break up with Sunset.
XIVAfter the eleventh page, there was a stretch of three almost-blank ones. Dates had been put on corners, and a pen had been gripped, but no words had come. Thoughts had been muddled, as hard to parse as an unknown language. But then, at last, there was the twelfth page. I’ve heard people saying that Lyra’s not going to be able to walk anymore. There’s no reasoning behind it, I’m sure—the worst news is the most sensational. Tomorrow night, the portal to Sunset’s home will open again. Sunset and I will be able to go through. She’s spent the last few days talking it over with me. Planning things out. She can’t be sure how Princess Celestia will react to her return, but it’s imperative their meeting go smoothly. “We’re dealing with somebody who raises and lowers the sun each day,” Sunset reminded me. It was strange, hearing her talking about Celestia. It used to be she couldn’t do that without twisting her face into the most horrid scowl or breaking down into tears. But now, she was so focused. So intense. She outlined all Celestia’s faults—the princess was arrogant, selfish, oppressive; she adored her throne and her stature and her power and scorned those who might challenge it. She put on a warm, motherly mask, but underneath it she was old. Stagnant. Bitter. I don’t know if it’s true. But Sunset believes it. And she looked at me, right into my eyes, and said that she needed my help. That the dreams she’d been chasing her whole life were out there, hovering out of her reach but within ours. That together, we could overthrow Celestia. What can she get me to agree to, I wonder?
