Think of Me | I Am Your Light
3 AM and You're Not Here
B_25 & RarityEQM
The chilled air breathed through his throat and nipped on his lungs as he climbed the hill, worn and tired as he was, the colour of his scales, darker but also faded, as reflected in the overhead moonlight. All laid in the darkness of the night as no light shone in the town behind. Not even the silhouette of buildings loomed in the distance.
But the mare had waited, at this hour, in this cold, for him.
"Sorry! Sorry." Spike panted in climbing the curve of the hill to a frigid smack of winds onto his chest. To the right, the impression of a tree could be made from the darkness, the shape of its height and arch, and the volume of the branches overhead. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting. Never mean to keep you waiting. Or ever mean to keep anyone waiting.”
The mare smiled as the leaves rustled above.
"Isn't it weird how we have to point that out? That we didn't mean to keep someone waiting?" Spike sat down on the hill without looking to the mare, his gaze, instead, set out to the sweep of the unseen town. "Do we say that as both a form of apology and insurance? Or maybe, back in the day, we'd purposefully keep others waiting—and it became common practice."
The dragon rattled on.
"And then once someone kept someone waiting without meaning to, then! Then they felt the need to point out that this waiting around was different than the other times they had to wait around—the waiting around was actually genuine this time."
His face scrunched at the cross at logic.
"Now hold on. I messed up. There's no real way of waiting that's not genuine—sorta." His eye clenched and he weighed his head into an awaiting palm. His expression took to goofiness. The mare always laughed, coming to smile, afterward, in seeing it. "Language is a weird thing. Twilight always corrects me by saying it's a precise thing—and the act of being precise allows for a lot of fun."
It'd been usual for the dragon to start rambling off about any old given thing. It could have even been seen as selfish—if the mare didn't enjoy listening to him so much. He'd always come to her in search of an answer. And then he would talk himself into one.
Yet, he was never able to do that by himself.
"It's the reason why they are waiting that becomes more genuine! And then the waiting changes because it's no longer artificial!" His shoulders, raised from exclamation, lowered in knowing the next point. "But. Then again. Nothing about the acts change. It's still the same in and of itself. So I guess the reason doesn't matter too much."
He thought about it for a little bit more. The mare listened. Either to his voice or the silence. Knowing she was okay with either allowed the dragon to be himself. To really think and feel about he wanted to say. That everything could come out in a timely manner.
He didn't have to rush to say or to be anything.
"But because the act doesn't change—doesn't mean how ponies then feel about it does! Maybe they'll feel okay waiting for a genuine reason... and come to be mad at an artificial one!" His shoulders weren't raised but also not lowered either. Sometimes they were more reflective of his well-being than a tail on a dog. "So then it does matter! And the reason why we say we didn't mean to keep them waiting, then let's them know that they weren't waiting for an artificial reason!'
And then the awkward idiot continued to go on.
"They don't feel so bad, afterward, about waiting! Plus! It gives them a view of who you are!" Even though his voice was raising, his body was lowering, coming to curl into itself. He'd sat down at some point. Next to the mare. "So the next time they wait, given that it's a long time away, they know that you don't mean to keep them waiting—and then they won't mind it so much as they wait!"
Everything inside of him dropped.
"I'm an idiot for making you suffer through that." He looked over at the mare. Her head was cocked, a swirl of purple, over an eye, as the other was a bright blue amidst the night. "I didn't even ask how you were. Or how you're doing. Not just the intro kind of how you're doing—actually see what you're doing and follow up on it."
Spike brought his legs together with his knees propped. He hugged them into his chest. Another breeze struck. He rocked into it. Something about being cold, the frost, the pain of the night. It allowed him to feel something. The receiving of a deserved punishment.
"Sometimes not feeling any kind of pain is the worst kind of pain of all." It had slipped out from him and he wasn't sure if there was value to that. Was it as useless as the first tangent—or was there wisdom in it? Even if it was, it did not serve himself. It would have to be of something to others. "Ignore that. Going back. I just don't like asking ponies just how they are, anymore."
The mare turned back to look at the night and came to look above. It seemed like there was a trio of stars in the sky. They twinkled. Fluctuated in which would be the brightest and which would go dim. It amused her for the moment as he continued.
"Because everyone asks how everyone is as a starter to a conversation... but don't really follow up on it." Spike laid his chin on top of his knees, then rolled his chin onto it, nuzzling his scales. It was a hollow sensation of what he craved of—but still a sensation, nonetheless. "I want to know what they've been up to. What they're doing. Wanting to understand something new they're on about and converse about that for a bit."
His face narrowed and silence won for a few moments.
"I don't know why I crave to do it. Never really given it that much thought. Even if I don't find the subject interesting... I still want to do something for the other pony." His sigh was a few seconds long. "That someone else actually cares. Is wanting to learn and proves they understood how they are. Just that feeling. Y'know? That feeling of actually being checked in on."
His eyes tried to focus on the grass only to be unable to see it. Too dark and too cold. The feeling of them was there. The hint of the darkness as to the possible shape of the spades. How they moved, the sway, those little sounds—able to be made over the howl of the occasional winds.
Yet he could not see them.
And was too tired, his body, too lethargic, to reach for it.
"I liked it when you did it for me, uh, when we first, uhm, s-started talking like that." Spike suddenly needed to look to the sky—but for a different reason. The mare did it to appreciate the wonders of the night. He did it for his own selfish gain of needing to be here... but wanting to getaway. "When my love for you had changed, and I had found a sister in you instead. Well, Twilight's my sister."
Even though he was looking to the sky, he could not see any of the stars, or much of anything at all.
"Her and I used to be close when we were younger but, ever since she went away to be princess, the two of us stopped being close." His head shook and, although he tried to see through his eyes, he was still too stuck inside his mind. "All we have is the link of being family and our closeness is what we once were before. I try talking to her still. But the interest... it isn't there anymore."
His eyes scrunched, and yet, he could not see the light.
"I feel like such a brat in saying it's like she only has one ear when it comes to listening to me—but, then again, I probably talked the other one-off." He chuckled as one had to chuckle in saying such a line. "Plus, she's busy. Needs to focus more on herself and her kingdom. It'd be nice if my words had an effect on her—but they don't."
The dragon had strayed from the point. He shook his head to clear the present route and return to the one before. "I love her. And try to do my best with her. She's my sister. But she never got me like you did—how strange we were underneath it all."
Spike chuckled. It was a genuine one. He noted the difference between this one and the one before as clues to better figure himself out. Maybe one learns about themselves best in interactions with others. But there were far too many variables for that to be an accurate statement.
"You weren't my sister," the dragon began with a heavy breath, "but you were my soul sister and, somehow, you were closer than my real one." His head dipped back onto his knees. If he was so blinded by the mind as to not be able to see the sky... then he might as well look to the abyss instead. "Twilight never followed me to that other world. Or interact with the 'me' beneath the surface. You can't be close to someone if you have to limit who you are."
His eyes went down and he followed that thought further.
"If you have to hide or lie... then there's no dice! Of course love can still be there! Twilight would give me the blood out of her veins if she thought it would help me." The world was such a confusing place where no one answer or way was the overall best one. He'd talked poorly of Twilight—but she also wasn't all that poor to him.
Only in this aspect.
"She keeps a photo of me at her desk and even has the password to the deeper reaches of the library as my name—claims that, even if she doesn't show it often, that's her way of loving me." His lips tucked inward, and the dragon slouched more into himself. "I'm touched by it, sure, of course. But if someone loves you... but you don't feel that love... then what is the point of it?"
The smack of his claw echoed with the incoming winds.
"I'm such a horrible dragon! You should be calling me a horrible dragon! But... you wouldn't, would you? Just say that I'm confused and lost in my feelings and need to stumble through them." He chuckled. Was it genuine or artificial? It seemed to be a blend of them both. "You always said I explained things better than you could. But then you always did something better than me. You gave love—and heaps of it."
The mare had stopped looking at the stars to glance down at him. Her look could not be described, but it was a sophisticated kind of cheekiness: that loving, knowing face, and over-extending smile.
"You gave ponies whatever they needed. That was the big difference between you and me." It was getting colder as the cold seeped into the spaces between his scales. One fire, held inside his chest, would warm him up. Yet it felt traitorous to even consider it. "I'd break the problem down or whatever and go about explaining it. Even that is over-selling and glorifying myself."
His claw didn't smack his face this time, but it did rest on it, even though it made no difference. He could not see the world outside, and he had no reason to hide from the mare. The act, though, allowed him to hide from himself.
"But you always heard what was beneath the words," Spike spoke from underneath his palm. "The hurt that was seeking to be mended. The insecurity asking to be assuaged by validation. The strangeness looking for acceptance. The loneliness searching for love."
That last one pulled a smile from him. It tugged at the corner of his lips. The act caused him to feel better. "Even if you did not have the answer, you had what the ponies needed—and gave it freely. It never felt cheap coming from you. Even... if you gave it during times you shouldn't have."
Finally the dragon looked at the mare. Her happy expression took to growing confusion and concern.
"Did you ever get taken advantage of for that? Did that ever happen between us? Did you ever give love even when the other side didn't deserve it?" He quickly broke himself from that train of thought. "No... you never took sides. You saw the pains on both and looked to mend them. You knew that, no matter the trouble, give them some love, and, maybe, that is what is needed for them to change or become better or—"
The dragon stopped it all.
"Am I talking garbage now? Trying to ascribe more to you than what you were about? Am I the one that speaks for you now?" Spike rattled on and on and knew that there was no point in it—or anything at all. "Acting like you were a goddess to everyone when that wasn't the case. You messed up. Did bad things. Made mistakes."
Spike put his claws into the ground behind him and leaned back, spreading himself, enduring more of the cold. It was a greater pain, a harder bite, yet it made existing, at that very moment, more manageable.
"Sometimes more pain can make you feel better."
That was muttered and probably not even heard.
Although, through most of his life, nothing he said was really ever heard.
Until her.
Until now.
"All I have is your words to go by now. Behaviour reflects personality. I saw all that you did, wanted to do, thought and felt." Breathing was becoming harder, and he seemed to be choking on something. Nervous was that pain in its tingling horribleness. "Even though I was an awkward derp when we first started to talk, you took me whole, and offered me love. You loved me. The real me."
His head was shaking and he wasn't sure exactly what it was he was rejecting.
"I act so many ways to so many ponies and, when I really start to act like myself, none really follow—not many care." His eyes narrowed and he brought a claw in front of his face. It was hard to see, but it was there, the dimness of purple that was before him. "I started acting whatever felt right in a given context—most approval and whatnot. But with you? It was different with you."
His claw dropped to the ground. He felt the grass. It was, indeed, still there.
"You always said I was hiding behind something, and so I stopped doing so around you, unleashing all the... whatever the heck that it is that I am." His mind exploded with his friends. The blue of Rainbow and the pink of Pinkie. "You look at other ponies and you can so easily sum what their personality is. They're distinct. But for me? I... I still haven't even worked out who I am."
Even those vivid images of friends faded from the head. They gave him hope. Who they were, what they were. Something to follow, to emulate, to believe in. They walked straight as he stumbled. Worked themselves out.
"You allowed me to work myself out around you, without ever minding, and always giving me love along the way." His claw curled into the grass and stabbed into the dirt. Frozen brown that was bound together. "Twilight doesn't know me as well as you—and we grew up together. I could be myself around you. Not only that. You were there. Way late into the night when everyone normal is asleep."
The town wasn't there, but the ponies were, now, with their eyes closed.
"I was so selfish with that," Spike said with a shake. "I tended to stay up late—but always got the sleep I needed. You couldn't sleep, though. Always had trouble with it. Never paid it much mind. Always figured you were like me when you said you had insomnia."
His claw grasped the iced dirt but, instead of crushing it, an act that, while useless, would have helped him... he instead let go. Pulling out his claw as its digits were numb. "I always took so much from you. You always thought about how everything must look from everyone's else perspective—but I never thought too much about how it must have looked to you."
Spike wiggled the dirt from his digits and, although he could feel his talons brushing together, that was all he got. He looked over the mare. She looked at him. Unable to do more than that. But... that would have to be enough.
"Maybe that explains why I suck so much at this now." He returned to sitting straight and wrapped his claws around his chest. It looked funny and stupid. Yet it was something he did for an unknown reason. "Didn't get to know you as well as I could have. I always asked about you. Tried to help. Say the right things... always thought that was enough."
He was shaking from side to side and his head wagged with the movement. "I was always looking for the answer to the problem. To express it with as much encouragement as possible. But I should have given you love."
Spike looked at Rarity.
"I should have told you how beautiful you were and how wonderful your dresses were." Even though the words did not feel right, he went on, knowing something had to be said. Too much time was wasted in trying to get it right—time, maybe, not had. Or time someone has to spend without hearing the truth about them. "What you meant to the world around you. You always felt useless and several things in life out there. But we never did a good enough job letting you know your impact here."
He scooted closer to her, talking to her, even though all the acts were for himself. Should they not happen at all, then? Is it play-acting for himself? Do we only do such acts because others are around and not for the inherent value within the act itself?
"That even if the outside regarded you as nothing—that you were someone special to us." He was getting closer and closer and his heart raced more and more for it. "I always feel so selfish in telling you what you did for me. But you made me better. You gave me the love that I didn't think I deserved—and I barely gave anything back to you in return."
And then he lost himself again. Stopping before he could get even near the mare. She didn't move, didn't advance or back away. Just keeping there. Spike looked at the ground before her.
"Sometimes I feel I say important things, and then, other times, it feels like I'm just talking for talking." His eyes scrunched. "There's something inside of me that I'm mining for by talking—but all I utter out is imperfections. You suffered through them for my sake. But now... now I just don't know what to do."
His eyes opened and she was waiting.
"After our fight—did you love me as much? Did you wish to know you were going to die before you did? What was on your mind? Did you want to return to dressmaking again? Did you check up on me often or did you need a break from me?"
He crawled closer, not for her sake, but rather his own.
"How do I keep you alive? By remembering you as selfishly as I do? In all that you did for me instead of what you were yourself? What she would have wanted and liked? Is that how you keep alive in some way? Does it even matter now?"
His claw clenched and he punched the ground, over and over, sending blotches of dirt skyward. Then he stopped. Panting. Still cold. Now hurt. Except all over. His eyes glanced up at the mare. "I wrote to you about death before. I figured that we live on in the things we did. Those we affected and how they will go on to affect others. That, and our words and creations itself."
He looked down at the creation of his anger. There was a hole in the ground. It would be gone, soon enough.
"You left enough traces of yourself, on others and on pages, for you to live on. What you thought and felt and what you hoped for—what you wanted the image of you to accomplish." The air was colder and his frosted lungs were struggling to breathe. "You gave so many gifts to ponies in coming to understand them—no matter how strange they were. You always wanted to do good. Never wanting to be selfish."
His claw swept over the spattered dirt, shovelling it back into the hole, needing to fill it again.
"I want to be better to others than I was to you—and I hate that it took to your death for that to be punched into me." The hole was filled, and his palm, rubbing it, caused the surface to be even with the rest of the land. "Not to think less of myself but to think of myself less. To give an answer and whatever love the other needs. But those just feel like hollow promises."
Spike looked over to the mare, to the stone erected from the ground, coming to it on his knees, needing to hug it. Frozen from the night with its writing consumed by the darkness. That, he couldn't take.
The dragon brewed a fire into the chest, which warmed him, as it melted the frost and cold on his body. He did it to warm the tombstone, allowing some of his fire to spit out onto a claw—which he held before its front.
Able to see the details of a grave of an absent friend.
Even though none were around to see it and, at this point, and onward, none would come to see it. Yet he did it anyway, even though it lacked a point. It felt like something he was doing for her—but that wasn't the case.
"You never told me what to do after you were gone," Spike whispered as he hugged the mare like a sister. "We were so different in our letters than how we were in our normal lives. Now I don't have anyone to go to. None that know me as deeply as you do."
His sigh was a shaky one and he hugged his soul-sister harder.
"You need to tell me what I'm supposed to do about you. I can only infer so much from the puzzle of what you would do and what you wouldn't want." He nuzzled the whiteness and laid his cheek upon it. "All of this sounds so stupid it now. Please. Just one more time. Can you write me a letter?"
Silence.
"Please?"
Silence.
"I love you."
Silence
"And I miss you."
And then the dragon was silent.
And then the night was long.
Author's Note
RarityEQM is the first close friend of mine to die. Their last gift was to bestow me with the ability to cry and mourn and feel for another. My head hasn't been the same. Writing is getting tough. I fear I may be losing myself in all regards.
I've been wrecked with questions as the more logical side of me comes alive. All EQM's fear of death and existentialism—do they no longer matter now? What about her insecurities? Feeling like she was useless and nothing and waiting for the day that she would make her mother proud? Do those die now as well? Like they never mattered?
They mattered to her, for a time, a time that has since passed.
They had so much that needed to be resolved. Wanting to do more with their writing and becoming more as a person. They thought they were useless and dread to the world out there. Yet, in her world, our world, she was special and loved.
It's strange to think that, out there, she felt like nothing and a nobody—and maybe that's how the world saw her. But here, though, she impacted so many, was generous to everyone, and was known for her work and blogs.
Now what happens? What about all those issues she would have come to resolve? It occurred to me, yesterday, that she could have become a mother. Could have found someone and been married and lived a life. Or even how she would have thought about old age.
She won't get any of that, now. Life stops. That's it. Those problems, the process to resolution, all of it... gone. Now I won't get to meet her. Or see her. She was my sister and yet we won't even get to hug.
What am I supposed to do? Am I even supposed to do anything or is that, inherently, selfish? Do we just let people die and disappear? It's not like they care or raise a fuss and the problem of their death is taken by the living.
What would she rather me do? Do I keep her alive in thinking about how she would think about everything? She lives in what she did. Do I keep writing and drawing and improving as a person and attribute that noble goal to her?
What would she have wanted from me?
Or would she have wanted anything at all?
I'm here and I'm not here. Losing myself and yet composed on the surface. But I'm breaking as the questions don't have answers and even the best ones will still have to be assumptions. I thought writing would bring me closer—but now I'm more confused than I was before.
All I can do is keep going. Writing and drawing and remember her. Reading our messages and seeing her works and asking everyone I can about her. I need some words from her. For RarityEQM to log in, one last time, and tell me what needs to be done.
If nothing should be done.
My nights of insanity have disappeared with her.
Now it's the weight of questions that crush me.
I'm going crazy.
Crazy.
Crazy.
Rest well, Soul Sister.
~ Yr. Pal, B ~
