Attraction
/əˈtrakʃ(ə)n/
- the action or power of evoking interest in or liking for someone or something.
She didn't-- or more likely-- couldn't remember the first time she saw it. Didn't even have a word to describe it other than mine. It was her, in some indefinable way she did not yet have words to articulate. It resonated with her in the way it lit up everything around it, made everything seem so much brighter and real than it had been before. It brought her new emotions that pushed away the nascent sense of otherness she felt, even in the midst of what she knew were family.
Oh come on Pinkamena, must you stop and stare at every weed and pebble in the path?
At first her parents were mildly alarmed when things started changing unexpectedly. It was so gradual at first. A small thing that went unnoticed, but one small thing became two, and two became another few, until the small things were not so small and unnoticeable. The milk in the bottles they gave to her and the other, while one remained the same cool white, hers did not. Hers shifted, little by little,until every time, the one she grasped held the same rose hue. After a while, the bottles themselves changed, took on the same tint, and then a hint of shimmering swirls, catching the light like stars in a rose-tinted sky.
Did you buy new bottles dear? No-- I thought you had. Maybe you just forgot.
It was the same thing with perfectly serviceable clothing and toys, passed down from those who had grown past this stage, of neutral colours. Cream and brown, beige and grey. “It goes with anything,” the parents had told themselves, “no point in wasting clothes they’ll just grow out of in a few months.” Those too changed, blush and magenta, rose and carnation coming to the fabric, splashes that bled into each other to fill the little dresses or plushies in ever-shifting patterns, delighting her with their chaos and unpredictability. And mine again, she said, clutching the colour that she was so drawn to in her arms. The parents chuckled, part indulgent of the small one, so different from the rest, and part uneasy, for she was so different from the others.
Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt. Just put the markers out of her reach next time please.
And she was unable to articulate the way the greys and browns, the creams and stark, stark white hurt something deep within her. And even more, their incomprehension pained her, the puzzled looks, the bemused sounds, the occasional frustrated sigh -- did they not want her how she was? Would they be happier if she was like the quiet one. Should she fade and dull to quietness, to non-colour? She tried, she really did, but something within cried out to be bright, to be curls and bounce and pink. A new word, gleaned from what she heard. It didn’t seem a big enough word, to encompass what she felt, but perhaps it would do. Perhaps words were meant to be sparing, and only cover a single facet. The other used so very few, yet every one brought smiles and encouragement from the family, so perhaps that was normal.
Yes, yes, your bear is very nice. Let someone else have a turn now Pinkamena. Shush.
The parents decided, all things considered, it wasn't really so much of a problem. Maybe not even a problem at all, if you didn’t make it one. Perhaps this was a 'thing' with twins, a need to be their own person maybe, one of those ‘stages’ all children go through, just as the parenting books said. It was supposed to be a good, healthy thing, so they shrugged, and carried on with their days, and nights. They tended their other children, so much more needy, but in so many ways much more understandable… matching even, like pebbles on a silent beach.
She’ll probably grow out of it, if we don’t draw attention to it. Learn to fit in better.
And the child reached, craved, clutched with every part of her, a need in her that she couldn't quantify, couldn’t define. Something in the comforting rosy hues called to her very soul, telling her that despite her difference, she was still beautiful. She was pink, and pink was her. Pink was the colour of joy, the colour of laughter. She took comfort in the times they laughed, telling herself that this was good. If they laughed, then they must want her still. Pink could be different, but still belong.
Maybe it’s just easier for her to say. And it is rather cute for a name. Pinkie Pie.
syn·er·gy
/ˈsinərjē/
noun
- the interaction or cooperation of two or more organizations, substances, or other agents to produce a combined effect greater than the sum of their separate effects.
It did not care much for having emotions, particularly in that moment, when Fear and Rage vied for supremacy. It was Magic, and It was never meant to deal with feelings. That hadn’t been Its task, Its role, until Loss and Necessity made it so. That had always been the Other’s job, until Its Other had been taken away, and the mantle had fallen to the only one of Them left that could...and nothing had prepared It for this.
Magic was never meant to stand alone, but here, torn from where It belonged, Alone for the first time in Its existence, It had no choice. They were too far away, separated by a gulf that even Its power could not bridge, and only the barest hint of Their connection remained. All because of the being who now held It in a hot grip, radiating twisted satisfaction, unaware of just what damage it was truly causing.
A new feeling rose in It then, and It turned Its ire on the one keeping It from Its Bearer. This horrid, foul little thing wanted Its power for power’s sake? Very well. Magic opened Itself, flooding its holder with Its unfiltered essence, spitefully giving the creature what it desired, turning a wish fulfilled into a curse. Power unchecked in a soul so tarnished would birth not the Queen the little wretch dreamed of, but an aberration shaped by its own selfish Desires.
And when the creature’s mind wailed in agony, Magic had no Kindness to share with it, only Its own mocking spite, ripping through its memories to show it just what had shaped its current predicament. It had wanted this power, this Magic...only to then spurn Its ‘gift?’ It was too late to take it back--the nasty little thing would have to suffer the consequence of its Choice.
It Regretted Its own actions soon enough, when the aberration turned its Hate, backed by the power Magic had given it, on Magic’s Bearer. Rage dissolved against a greater Fear, and Magic reached with a desperation for the Bond with Its companions, for alone It could not save Its Bearer. Its cry echoed into the Infinite, unheard...or so it seemed…
???
It's You.
Time slowed, each moment growing farther apart until Magic existed not within Time’s grasp, but in the place between moments. This was not Its doing, and as Its essence twisted in Confusion, seeking the source of not just this new event, but of the brush of warmth that It did not want to acknowledge, out of Fear that it was not truly there. It had been so long...long even for something that existed immune to Time as Magic and Its ilk...since Magic had felt the touch of Its Other as more than as a Memory that living things might have called Dream.
It's been too long...My Other.
Warmth crashed into It, filled with the emotions that only Its Other had ever truly understood and embraced, emotions that had, unbeknownst to It, shaped Its existence in ways uncountable...until the moment when that Other had been lost, and the warmth It so relied on had grown cold and empty, filled only fleetingly with the pale shadow of that warmth provided to It by Its Bearers. If Magic had possessed the ability to weep, It would have, so great was Its relief.
I am sorry, My Other, for traversing where You could not follow. It was...Necessity.
Relief became pained as Sorrow and Regret flowed from one to the other, and Its lack of understanding, of Knowing pressed back with all the force of a physical blow. Necessity had left It Shattered, left Them barely able to do as They were meant to? Its Other had known...and not...told It? Why? What Necessity was so great that it meant that the Other had to act alone, and without Them...without...It?
I...do not Remember...My Other. Only that it was Necessity for All-That-Is.
But….even to Magic, that Loss had been so long ago. Why had Its Other not returned? Confusion transmuted into Hurt and Rage. Did the Other not Desire to Return? Even as that query was formed, Its essence was suffused with that warmth once more, with the knowledge of Its Other’s Longing and Desire to be whole once again.
I Desired, My Other, if for no other Reason than You. But it was not to be--I am not as I was. My Fate is in another’s grasp now.
Another’s? Magic’s fury only grew. Some being had its hold on the Other, controlling It against Its Will? What living being would dare such a transgression? It inspected the essence that had curled around It, and followed a thin, tremulous connection...to the very creature that Magic Itself was now tethered to? This? This horrible wretch was responsible? Holding Its Other captive for its own whims? Magic seethed, the sense of violation so great that even Its very nature could not hold back the dark Desires that burned now in It. It would see this aberration unmade, erased from existence before even the moment of its birth. In this moment, out of Time’s grasp, it would be but a simple thing for It to reach to that first moment that the lifeforce flared into being...and snuff it out….
The thought had barely finished and Magic’s power had already wrapped around a fragile light, one that weakened and threatened to be extinguished forever.
No! Do not, My Other, I beg of You! That Life had no part in this, any more than she does! This is not who You are, not what We were made to Be!
This was what It had to Be, without the Other’s voice. Surely Its Other knew that, could read It as well as It always had. They had no real Secrets between them. It could not let this go without consequence. The being had doomed itself. The light flickered wildly, guttering and gasping its last…
NO!
In all of Their existence, Magic and Its Other had never been at odds, never levered Their Wills against one another...until that moment out of Time, when Its treasured Other cut through Its grasp with Its very essence, barring Magic from finishing what It had started. It railed against the Other as a living creature might against a mountain, projecting Anguish and Pain in a way It never allowed any other to know. How could Its Other protect its Jailer?
My Other...She is not the problem. She is the answer. She is the solution to that which is Shattered. They all are.
Rage guttered out like the little light almost had...and might still, as the Other drew Its attention outward, to the Now They hovered between, to the beings that had acted where Magic could not, in a futile effort to save Its Bearer. Yet...Magic...could not See what Its Other meant. All It saw there were weak mortal lives, with no power, governed by feelings that made them brittle. Shallow. Useless.
Look deeper, My Other. Let Me show You just how brightly their Light can shine.
Author's Note
THis began life as a short written by my co-creator, one of the brilliant minds behind Rubicon, and when we needed to create a prologue for it to make it long enough to post, we were hit with a moment of brilliance. THis is going to be a short story on its own, bruhahah. Strap in, kiddies.
