The Light at the Edge of the World
Rarity knows Twilight is coming, for she looks at the ground and she sees the sky. It’s not there, of course, but she sees it just the same. Little flecks of deep blue and purple on the dirt and rocks, tiny fluttery wisps of cloud that vanish when she blinks. But she’s used to the chaos Twilight brings by now, so there's hardly a lull in her sewing.
Seven times now, Twilight has come for her. She knows that this will be the last.
If she were to turn around and look at what’s coming, she would see the light. It’s a ravenous, searing thing, swallowing up everything it touches in its implacable march. Seven times, she has seen that light, and each time she was forced to flee.
And now, there’s nowhere left to run. She’s sitting on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a turbulent sea. A plane of dark blue stretching left and right and onwards as far as she can see, marked by reflected lights like twinkling stars. The distant roar of the waves breaking against the cliff are… wickedly tempting, in this moment.
But she has a dress to finish, first. She’s so very close. Just a few more minutes of sewing, and she’ll be done. She knows she’ll never wear the thing, but once, just once, she wants to see it and lose herself in its beauty.
Footsteps come from behind her.
She sighs, quietly. “Go away,” she says. Then she pauses and shakes her head—a scowl forms on her lips. “You won’t listen, but I suppose it’s a worth a shot, isn’t it?”
“You know I can’t do that,” Twilight says. Her voice is a vile, deceptive thing. On the surface it sounds forlorn and full of sorrow. But Rarity’s no stranger to those deceptions. Her ear cuts through them, and her mind twists those sounds around until the truth is revealed: I will never let you escape me, Twilight had really said.
“Of course.” Rarity threads her needle through another bit of fabric, careful not to let the hatred boiling in her veins stop her from keeping a steady hand. “For all your faults, you were never one to give up, were you?” Memories stirred: Twilight, so lost in her books she looks ready to pass out, poring over an arcane formula that’s blown up in her face three times, insistent—correctly—that this time is different. Twilight, looking up with bleary, sleepy eyes as Rarity brings her coffee with a quietly disapproving look.
And in an instant, those memories are usurped; in her mind’s eye, she sees Twilight, weaving magic so cruel it stings and bites even as a memory.
“Not on you,” Twilight says, her voice an attempt at a solemn whisper. You’re the one I hate the most; how could I let you go?
Rarity twists her head around to cast a defiant glare. Twilight’s standing there, her hair billowing behind her in a silent breeze; there’s a tremble in the air, a subtle glow around her eyes, that speak of magic—power—Rarity can’t begin to understand.
And behind her, there’s the light. Above her, stabbed by that light, the sky bleeds; it’s turned a filthy, unnatural shade of green, and liquid too dark and thick to be rain pours down in torrents. Where Twilight comes, all living things suffer. She’s a plague, a disaster on legs.
But more than that, she just looks… wrong, in a word. Her face is untouched by shadow, despite the hour, despite the piercing light that should be enveloping her. Sometimes her body appears translucent; every inch of her is an anathema to order. She’s hurt, though—Rarity’s thrown rocks and needles at her, and they’ve left scratches and bruises that haven’t healed yet.
“Stand up,” she says. I want you to be at your best when you die. She holds out her hand. “Come back.” Hurry. I don’t want to wait much longer.
The idea of listening to her—obeying her—makes Rarity seethe. She tears her eyes away from Twilight, and they fall to the dress she’s been sewing. She takes hold of her needle. “I’m busy,” she hisses.
The sea is in front of her, far below. A question runs through her head. She thinks she knows the answer. But she has a dress to finish, first.
Twilight’s voice continues to worm into her ears. It draws closer. “What are you working on?” Twilight asks. It’s ugly. Rip it to pieces. Spare me the pain and yourself the trouble.
“You know,” Rarity says, working her needle deftly through another stitch, “exactly what it is.”
Closer still, Twilight comes. Her presence is palpable; the hairs on Rarity’s back stand up straight and tall when she’s this close. “It must be very important,” Twilight says. What a waste.
Rarity clenches her teeth, pushing Twilight from her mind. There is only the dress.
It’s white. White and gold, breezy and flowing. Small pearls and diamonds worked into the collar make it twinkle and glow as the light catches it. It is the most beautiful thing she’s ever made. She thought it’d be impossible, when she first dreamed of it, but every dress was impossible until she set to work on it.
Even now, it’s not going to be completed. It needs a veil. It needs a ring. But she has no time for the former and no heart for the latter, so compromises must be made.
“I promised to make it,” Rarity says. Just a few more stitches—very soon, now, she’ll be done. She thinks about turning again, so that Twilight can see the venom she hopes is in her eyes, but she doesn’t. “And since I am not you, that means something.”
Another memory wells up, fresh and searing. Rarity sees herself, beaming with bliss, eyes wide, starry and tearful. Twilight’s in front of her, kneeling. Smiling hopefully—scowling, with a vicious glint in her madness-touched stare.
“Rarity,” Twilight says. She’s getting very close now. “I need you to stop.” I want you to be a liar, just like me.
“Then make me.” Magic rises up to answer Rarity’s call. She’s never been one for combat, physical or arcane, but in this instant determination lends her magic a hardness she’s always found it lacking. “I know you’re strong enough to.”
“No. You believe that.” Even you don’t think you can defy me. Twilight’s voice comes down from just beside Rarity. It cracks as Twilight talks. It speaks of pain that speaks of the greatest lie of all—that Twilight has a heart to break.
Rarity looks up. Twilight’s there, standing next to her. Looming overhead, like a baleful storm cloud.
“If you’re trying to goad me into a fight,” Rarity says, “I don’t have time.” Her grip on her needle tightens. “So go away. Leave me in peace, just this once.”
“You have all the time in the world. You haven’t even started it yet.”
For an instant, when Rarity looks down, she sees nothing. The dress is gone. Her work undone. Twilight’s voice slices her to the bone.
The second you think you’re done, I’ll wave my hand and it will all turn to ash.
The dress is there. She knows it is—she can see it, touch it, remember every stitch. It’s hers, it’s a lifeline of sanity in a world of madness.
“And I want you to finish it.” Twilight sits down next to her. “I want that more than anything. But if you want to do that, you need to come with me.”
As if to punctuate Twilight’s words, the light pulses. It seems to draw nearer.
Rarity trembles. She turns towards the light, just enough that it starts to engulf her vision, and then she wrenches her head towards the cliff, towards the waves far below her. They rise and fall, battering endlessly at the cliff.
She’s trapped. Twilight behind her, a fatal drop in front.
The question from before makes a resurgence: if she’s to die either way, was it more noble if she did so through her own choices?
It’s freedom that way, isn’t it?
“Look at what you are,” Rarity says. “You’ve destroyed almost all there is. Am I supposed to believe you want me to make something?” Her hand jitters, and the needle with it.
“I don’t know.” Twilight’s voice is etched with vulnerability as impossible as snowballs on the sun. “But I know that I want you to.” I want you to be wrong. I want to twist your world inside-out.
The malice Rarity hears cannot possibly intermingle with the sorrow, the desperation she sees on Twilight’s face—so she stares at the latter, praying that it will warp into a ghoulish, cackling grin, something that makes sense.
It does, briefly. It flickers between wrathful madness and… and whatever else it is that Rarity sees.
The duality gnaws at her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks.
Twilight reaches out towards her. Rarity flinches—magic wells up, and Twilight’s hand comes to a lurching stop as though it pressed against stone. Nothing about Twilight’s face makes sense.
“I could list a hundred reasons, and they all have to do with you.” Twilight pulls her hand back slowly, closing her fingers like they’ve been stung. She turns to face the light. “You ran away from me,” she says. “So I had to keep chasing you. I guess… I guess to you, I’ve been…”
Rarity peers towards the light.
It’s a door. A door cut into space. The light surrounds it—one instant, it’s back to being a world-devouring sun, the next it’s just a rectangle of harsh white light.
“I need you, Rarity. A lot of people do.” Her voice is tender and gentle, soft as the finest silks. It wavers. “I love you. Don’t you remember that?”
She does, of course. The memories are like sand in an hourglass; every time she looks at them, they’re different. She and Twilight are curled up together by a fireplace, whispering how one day they’ll be married—not today, certainly not today, neither of them are ready, but one day it’s going to be the best of days—and certainly, Rarity will have to make the dress, and it’ll be the best one she’s ever made…
They’re staring each other down, the fields around Ponyville set ablaze—there’s fire, bright green fire, twisting down trees, freezing them solid. Twilight’s grinning, wide and mad like her delight is ripping her face in two, Rarity’s trying to weep and scowl at the same time.
There’s a sense that something is right, but…
I hate you. I—
Rarity pushes back the correction. It’s a strain; she sees Twilight’s face warping and bending, and tells herself that what she’s known is wrong is right.
“If I go with you,” she says, “what’ll happen?”
“You’ll…” Twilight catches herself, hanging her head. Rarity manages to convince herself Twilight doesn’t make a ghastly cackle. “You’ll wake up, I hope,” Twilight says. “I don’t know exactly what—” Twilight’s mouth moves, but it’s blurry; for a moment, it’s like her face has gone blank, but then she keeps talking and it’s all fine “—did to you. It—it’s like your mind’s… infected. I think I can make it better, but you’ve always shut me out before.”
Twilight holds up her arm. It looks misty and translucent, but then it’s pale and thin, marred by ugly blotches. “I’m not sure I can do this again. Whatever magic you got hit by, it… doesn’t like me being here.”
Rarity trembles. It feels like her head’s splitting, the longer she looks at Twilight without mentally revising her. “What would I wake up to?”
Twilight’s mouth goes blurry again. Longer, this time. “—but I think we can make it right again. You and me and our friends, we can do it. But not without you.”
Rarity nods quietly, shuddering. She looks away from Twilight—over the ocean, down at the gnashing waves, down at the dress resting in her lap—which wasn’t there until she turned away, she realizes.
It hurts. She stares down at the ocean, and the crash of the waves call out to her.
Twilight, though. Twilight. She’s a harbinger of destruction, tempting her towards madness—or she’s a long-lost lover, pleading her to come back home.
Rarity runs through her choices.
And it’s obvious. It’s so, so obvious. But it’s terrifying, just the same, as she rises to her feet. She sees the light behind Twilight out the corner of her eye, and she sees the ocean and the cliff.
“Twilight.”
“Yes?”
“I hope, for both our sakes, that I’m making the right guess.”
She turns. She walks towards the light. Fear grips her as the light envelops her, icy dread snaring her like barbed webs.
Rarity’s eyes open. She’s staring up at the sky, which is dark in all the wrong colors, pelting her with rain—a drop slides into her mouth, and it’s too thick to be water and tastes strongly of chocolate.
“Twilight?” she says.
She feels filthy and exhausted, inside and out. Like she’s been lying in the mud for three days straight—maybe she’s done exactly that, who knows. It’s oddly relieving to know how real that feeling is, miserable as it may be.
And Twilight’s voice makes things better. It’s quiet but happy, like Twilight’s bursting with joy but she’s too tired to express it all. The world’s upside-down, but they’re together, and Twilight’s voice makes that sound like a wonderful thing. “I’m here, Rarity,” she says.
Rarity didn’t need to hear that, but she likes that it was said. She looks to the side, and Twilight’s there. She’s… solid. Real. She’s smiling, and that it makes sense for her to be smiling drives Rarity halfway to tears.
“What took you so long?” she asks. She reaches out. When she touches Twilight’s hand, it’s a giddy, hopeful squeeze.
Twilight makes a snort of a hopeless laugh. “I had to untangle you from a spirit of chaos’ magic. It… took a couple of tries. But I got there in the end.”
“Of course you did.” Rarity smiles. She looks back up at the sky. “Now I suppose we have to do something about… all that,” she says.
In the corner of Rarity’s eye, Twilight falters. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.” There’s subtext lacing her voice just then—she’s sorry, so very sorry, to be throwing this burden onto Rarity’s shoulders so soon.
Rarity lets her eyes fall shut. She breathes, long and deep. Three seconds, she gives herself. Three seconds of peace and quiet, where there’s nothing but her and Twilight’s hand in hers and the rain falling down on them.
Saving the world isn’t so different from making a dress. They’re both impossible until you pick yourself up and you get to work.
So Rarity rises. Her legs have a little wobble to them, and her arms feel like they’re made of wood, but she stands, and she pulls Twilight to her feet.
“Then let’s get started,” Rarity says.
