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                     Lady Singularity                      
                    -by Monochromatic-                     
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                      i did it for us                      
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Author's Note
https://camo.fimfiction.net/91ylJJi1lU_3cNmwktVg3zPQfCaPlCp0v9ajvrGtPko?url=https%3A%2F%2Fi.postimg.cc%2FG28qWTrr%2F2025-01-27-15-27-42-Window.png
i did it for us
It was a bright sunny day when the funeral was canceled.
From across the kingdom, as soon as they’d gotten the news, scholars had come to bid farewell to one of the grand library’s two custodians. A snaggle-toothed middle-aged earth pony mare with an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what book you’d like, Turnover had lovingly taken care of Canterlot Castle’s library alongside her husband, Oakewood, a unicorn stallion known for failing to uphold the no-chatter-and-shenanigans rule he himself had imposed.
When asked once why she’d hired them, why entrust them with her most precious of books, a grinning Queen Twilight Sparkle had only one thing to say: “The library hasn’t had a moment of peace since they came.”
Everything those two did, they did together. And they did a lot together. For example:
Portfolio and resume reviews on Monday evenings for those struggling to find where they belonged, with Turnover asking the right questions during mock interviews; Ponish Naturally on Wednesdays, where creatures from abroad could come and practice their conversational skills and soon regret it when subjected to Oakewood’s terrible jokes; and most importantly of all, storytime with foals every weekend afternoon, so tired parents could remember what a romantic date even was while the bookish couple got to deploy their very best dramatic readings.
If love was a thing you could see, a tangible feeling you could grasp in your hooves and feel all around you, it was with them. In their smiles whenever they walked past each other, in the way they would complete each other’s thoughts, in the way the two thermos behind their conjoined desks were always warm and always full no matter when one of them stopped by to sit.
It was this—well, it was so many things, so many, the process never getting easier for her, never, ever, ever—but it was this most of all that Twilight mourned when they told her one night, long after library doors had been closed, that Turnover was sick.
And there was nothing to be done.
“It’s all right. We will be all right,” Oakewood had said even later still, when it was just him and Twilight in the dead of night, Twilight—not for the first time—seeing tears in his eyes, but for the first time seeing them for another reason than him laughing hardest at his jokes.
“I’m sorry, Oake,” she replied through blurry eyes, having long accepted that the tears would come every time.
His voice was quiet but firm as he spoke. “None of that, your Majesty. Except for you and our dear princesses, death comes for us all.” He paused and then added, “Well. Almost all of us, I suppose.”
~~~
For the first and only time since she’d hired them, just as the illness was worsening, Turnover and Oakewood used six of the hundreds of days off they’d let accumulate, having previously waved them off despite their monarch’s protests.
It was during this week that Twilight sent letters out to all and anypony she could think of who the couple would want to be there, which it turned out was many.
This was a practice she’d become familiar with, one that Princess Celestia had once prepared her for. Death was inevitable. Death should be inevitable. It should, and thus she went through the motions of preparing for it, as she’d done so many times, but, well, as previously stated…
When, on one bright sunny morning, a delighted Oakewood returned in the company of a miraculously cured Turnover, Queen Twilight Sparkle was overjoyed to find herself canceling a funeral.
“Love,” Oakewood replied when she’d asked how this was possible, tears in his eyes. “Love kept her here.”
“Love,” repeated Turnover, her voice so sincere and earnest Twilight only just noticed the mare hesitating to take her husband’s hoof when he extended it. “Love kept me here.”
About three weeks later, Twilight attended a session of Ponish Naturally, quietly monitoring Turnover to ensure all was well. It was a fun session, creatures from abroad clamoring to practice their ponyish on her, and she only just noticed that when Oakewood unleashed a particularly terrible joke, Turnover was amongst the ponies laughing out of obligation.
Two weeks after that, a dinner was held for all of the staff working at the castle. It was a joyous affair, one and all relieved the table was not missing a very important pony, and Twilight only just felt a passing pause when Turnover asked to be seated between two other ponies, neither of which were her husband.
Two more weeks went by, and when she attended storytime with foals, it was no longer a coincidence that she noticed how warmly Turnover suggested an adventure book instead when a little excitable filly requested Poneo and Filliete be read.
“Turnover,” she asked during a pause for snacks, following the mare when she went to fetch more sandwiches from the castle kitchen, “are you feeling well? Is—Is everything all right?”
“But, of course, your majesty!” the librarian had replied with a laugh, snaggle-tooth on full display, waiting as cooks filled her trolley with plates. “My acting can’t have been that bad!”
“No, no. It was fine,” Twilight replied.
“You’ve been coming around a lot, I noticed,” Turnover said after a pause. “Are you worried about me?”
“No,” Twilight lied. “Yes,” she amended at her friend’s pointed look.
“...Have you scheduled another check-up with Whisper Winds?” Turnover asked, her chastising tone contrasting the warmth in her voice. “Because I think he’s starting to grow irritated at having to tell you all my check-ups are coming out well.”
“I haven’t, no,” Twilight replied immediately, only slightly offended.
“Because he forbade you?” How she laughed as crimson swept over her monarch’s cheek. “Your Majesty… I’m fine. Hale and hearty! What happened to me might have been a miracle, but it happened.”
“But was it that?” Twilight asked, the words leaving her mouth unbidden, more urgent than she’d wanted. “Was it a miracle?”
“Queen Twilight.” Every word was as edged as the thin smile on the mare’s lips. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I will ask you to stop.”
Twilight did, a twisted shame burning her.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I just… I’m sorry.”
Turnover’s blade softened. “It’s alright, your majesty. I know you care. But I’m fine. All right?”
It wasn’t a question, Twilight knew, but she appreciated Turnover was kind enough to phrase it as such.
“Yes,” lied the queen, remembering seeing only Oakewood filling in the two mugs perpetually at the couple’s desks. “All right.”
It was… about two months later, if she had to guess—which would be correct because there was little guessing involved when she knew exactly how much time had passed since their ‘miraculous’ trip—that Oakewood privately approached her at her throne to break the news.
“And they let her move in so soon, too, which is good!” he said, his cheer as empty as the apartment he’d described Turnover was moving into. “I was the first to see it. She wants us to stay friends, which I’m grateful for.”
“That’s good,” she said, because what else could she say? Certainly not the thoughts running through her head.
If love was real, if it was a tangible thing one could touch and see, it was them.
Had been them.
“Is…” How loathe it was to speak business, but she had to. “Is she resigning? Are you?”
“No, no! Absolutely not,” he replied, aghast. “We love our work, and we work well together. We still care for each other, your Majesty. Nothing can change that.”
“...Right,” she said. “I’m glad.” Eternity lived and died in a second. “Oakewood, I—”
She cut herself off. It wasn’t her business. It wasn’t when she still didn’t know for sure.
“You?” he pressed, regardless. He smiled, and it was warm, and she didn’t understand how. “It’s alright. Speak your mind.”
“...Did something happen?” she asked.
He shook his head. It was slow. “She fell out of love, that’s all,” he said, as if that wasn’t insane. If love was real, it had been them. It had been them. At her look, he continued, “Her brush with death, well… It changed her! Things like that should, don’t you think? One does not walk away from the grim reaper the same.”
“No,” Twilight said. She knew that well. “One doesn’t.”
And on that subject.
“Oake.” Her tone was measured, trying to hide the gulf swallowing her whole. “Oake, did something happen on your trip?”
She saw him falter.
She saw him.
“...On the trip? No, it was—”
“Don’t lie to me.” She reigned herself in just as soon as the words left her mouth. “Sorry. I... Oake, please.”
“Your Majesty.” There was no edge here. No anger, no annoyance. “What happened was a miracle. Please, understand. We wanted it, we—Please.”
“Oakewood.” She was all but begging. “Please. If you—Don’t lie to me. Miracles like that, they—That’s not a miracle.”
“You may think so, your majesty,” he said, and it was clear the conversation was done, “but it was to us.”
A guard approached her a week later, when there was no one but her, just as she’d requested.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “About the matter you asked me to look into. I have news.”
“And?”
Please, she thought. Please, let it somehow have been a miracle.
“I’m sorry, but… It’s just as you suspected,” he said. “They went to see her.”
“Twilight. We’re running out of time. Please. Don’t make me beg.”
“I can’t. It’s not safe.”
“I see,” said Queen Twilight Sparkle, the gulf taking over. “Thank you, Asphalt.”
The guard hesitated. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
“Yes,” she said, standing up. “Have my carriage prepared.”

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                     i did it for them                     
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i did it for them
Once upon a time, Manehattan had been the mecca for fashion, the bustling city bursting with the latest in fashion stores and fashion trends and fashion everything-you-could-name.
But that was a long time ago.
If ever in Equestria—frankly, not just Equestria, but in the entire realm—there had been a city dedicated to fashion in every aspect of its design, it was Coeur de Couture.
Four mountains, a myriad of art, beauty fit to blind the heavens, and no waiting. A pony could try and take it in at a look, and a pony couldn't help but fail.
Coeur de Couture. A city built in white marble. And in the districts where that sort of design was unspeakably passé, a city built also in dark granite, lapis lazuli, unassuming brick, canals suspended mid-air. A city where the designs loomed wherever the eye might roam, window after backlit window rising to the sky filled with the ponequins sporting that very day's works. The streets may be in shadow, but what did that matter so long as the artistry about them shone?
Coeur de Couture. Three peaks, feeding down into the web of streets and parlours and galleries at their feet. And between them all, Mont Couture, from whose own peak the cable-cars strutted across the clouds to deliver their precious cargo of that day's designs.
Mont Couture, its peak, the Boutique.
In the face of its pillars and frontage and carousel figures on high, Twilight remembered boutiques from days past. What artists from then might have wanted, if they'd just had that little more of a budget, maybe an extra storey to hold the designs, if they'd ever been able to get that carousel girdling the first floor to work.
She didn’t understand how so many ponies could stand to live there, so close to Her, but though it was her concern, it certainly wasn’t her business. In fact, she usually avoided going there if she could.
She could have sent somepony else in her place, a guard or a diplomat, to tell the city’s grand couturier that the kingdom’s monarch expected her at the palace immediately, but not this time. Not with the molten lava flowing through her veins, ready to burn.
And yet, as she stood before its doors, she felt something distinctly different than rage.
She felt dread. The same dread she felt every time she had to deal with the Lady and her puppets and the complete mockery of those Twilight still held dear.
She’d hoped it would get easier. It should have gotten easier, logically and sensibly, because those things were abominations, and yet, every time, just like with death, it was never easy, and this fact alone enraged her all the more.
They’re just puppets, she thought as she slammed the heavy knocker three times. She was only knocking to be courteous, forcing herself to be better than what her instincts demanded, which was to tear the doors open on their hinges and make her presence violently known.
One, two, three seconds passed, before the doors slowly opened to reveal a perfectly crafted, life-sized, beige-felted earth pony, devoid of any features such as eyes Twilight could glare at or a mouth from which to reply to Twilight’s snarled demands.
“Is she here?”
The puppet did nothing for a second and then stepped out of the way, Twilight marching past it and into the lobby.
“Where is she?” she demanded next, her thundering voice echoing through the large foyer and into the halls beyond.
The puppet said nothing, only closing the door and resuming a lifeless position next to it, waiting for the next miserable soul who came knocking by.
“Don’t just stand there!” she snarled. “Go and get her. Aren’t you supposed to be intelligent?!”
Again, the puppet said and did nothing. She looked around and saw another nearby, this one now lifeless by the entrance to a hallway.
“What about you? Are you going to get her, or are you useless, too?”
And again, this puppet did not move an inch, nor did it react in any visible way when its companion landed a few feet next to it, stuffing pouring out from both sides of its now severed body.
“Singularity!” the monarch of Equestria bellowed, her horn still crackling with magic. “Come here now.” She slammed her hoof against the floor, magic flooding out. “Now!”
The grand couturier did not show up, but the voice that replied in her stead still made Twilight’s stomach churn.
“Geeeeez! That’s no way to try and get a refund, lady.”
The puppet that walked into the lobby was not like the others, not completely blank in mind and body. This one—a pegasus—was a much more finished model, from kaleidoscopic mane to cyan felted body, and a single expertly stitched rainbow-colored lightning bolt on its flank.
Though her stitched cerise eyes could not express emotions, and her muzzle had no mouth with which to speak, the magic voice that came out of it when it saw the mutilated puppet conveyed emotions well enough.
“Holy crap! What happened?!” the blue puppet asked, and when it turned around and met Twilight’s gaze, it stepped back. “Oh, crap. Twilight? I mean, your majesty?”
(The voice wasn’t the same. Close enough, but not the same. It wasn’t, Twilight was sure of it, but—agonizing her to her core if she thought about it too much—not because she remembered what the real one’s voice sounded like, but because she remembered thinking it wasn’t the same the first time she heard the blue thing speak. )
“Where. Is. She?” Twilight asked, her voice level only because she felt sick, and sicker still at feeling so sick.
“Uuuuuuuh.” The blue one stepped back. “Uh. Let me just. Uh. Stay here.”
“No!” Twilight demanded, and it was only a primal care for a friend long gone that stopped her from dismembering her insulting facsimile. “WHERE. IS. SHE?!”
“Please,” Rain—the thing said, taking yet another step back. “Chill, please, your majesty. Let me just. I’ll go get—Okay?”
“You have three minutes. Or.”
She barely spared a glance at the puppet pieces on the floor, and was relieved when the thing bolted back into the hallway she came from.
Breathe, she thought to herself, closing her eyes. She couldn’t lose her temper like this. She shouldn’t, and wouldn’t, and not right before she had to deal with Singularity. So, one after the other, just as Cadance had taught her more than a century ago, she breathed in. Then out.
In. And out.
“Twilight! Omigosh, you’re here!”
The queen kept her eyes closed, even as her heart bled with newfound anger. Why couldn’t they stay the hell away?
“I was so sad! I thought I’d never see you again!” the voice continued, and just like with the blue one, the voice did not match. This one was too high-pitched, too happy, too cheerful, manufactured in a way the real one would never have been. “Remember, ‘cause last time you said you were never coming back here?”
Twilight Sparkle kept her eyes closed and ignored the voice.
“Ooooh, are you taller?! Dashie said last time that you looked the same, but I think you grow a liiiiiiittle bit taller every time! At least an inch!”
She ignored the voice. She ignored it as best she could, the uneven pitch with every bounce, the stupid sing-song that was just a little too familiar, the stupid awful joy the thing had, if it was even real.
“Twilight? Oh, are we playing a game? Who can be the quietest? Oh, oh! I can play, too!” One, two, three seconds passed, and the voice erupted again, like nails on the chalkboard that was Twilight’s mind. “Uuuugh! I just CAN’T! You’re too good!”
Standing there, her eyes closed, Twilight Sparkle had only one thought, the same she’d had so long ago.
How could she?
How could she have done this?
“...Twilight?” Its voice was quieter, concerned. Coming closer and closer. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Until it came too close, and the final “Twilight?” arrived with a felted hoof pressing against her trembling coat.
The crack of magic was loud, but not as loud as the shattering sound of the puppet colliding against a glass display, which itself was not as loud as Twilight’s own voice.
“Don’t TOUCH me.”
And only now did her eyes see the puppet, the earth pony mockery scrambled atop the broken display, several gashes across its body, and only the one disfiguring three balloons succeeding in making the alicorn feel sick once again.
“Oooooh,” it said, looking over at Twilight with expressionless stitched cerulean eyes. “Well, that wasn’t very nice!”
“Enough!” Twilight’s voice was like a thunderstorm, ready to bring the whole place down with her. “Where is—”
“She ain’t here, your majesty.”
And again—again, again, again, neverending, neverending, neverending—her stomach dropped and churned.
Maybe, if Twilight too were deranged, she’d find some sick humor in the fact that out of all four of them, this puppet’s voice was all but identical to her inspiration’s. Hard to forget the voice one most squabbled with.
For what was the last time, considering what the puppet had just said, Twilight Sparkle turned around to face another charade of her departed, dearest friends.
The orange one was just like the other two, a perfectly crafted tribute from the orange coat, to the apple-shaped cutiemark, to the wide green eyes. The only thing about her that was not made of felt or other stitched fabric was her hat.
The hat was, as somepony might have once said, a ‘bona fide’ light brown hat. Twilight imagined these were easy to find, especially for somepony who ruled the fashion industry with an iron hoof, but…
But this hat was worn. It was creased. It was used. It looked old. So evidently lived in was it, in fact, that in the deepest, darkest pits of her soul, Twilight Sparkle feared it was not just any hat.
She feared it was the hat, and the only reason she would never know for sure was because she did not think she could live through desecrating Applejack’s grave just to find out She had done the same.
“Well,” said the orange one, “I’d say I’m happy to see you again, your majesty, but I reckon the feeling wouldn’t be mutual, would it?”
“What do you mean she’s not here? Isn’t this her home?” Twilight barked. “Where the hell is she, then?”
The orange one shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you even if I wanted. She ain’t usually in the business of tellin’ me what she’s doing, just that I’m in charge while she’s gone. Speaking of which—” She looked towards the pink puppet standing up in the distance. “You all right over there?”
“My stuffing’s coming out!” the pink puppet yelped, pawing at escaping strands of white wispy fabric. “Don’t look, it’s awful! I’m not a foal-friendly sight at all right now!”
“You sure ain’t. Come now, go and get you-know-who to stitch you up.” It looked back at Twilight briefly and then added, “And if you see Shy on the way, tell her she’d be smart to stay clear.”
“Oki-doki-loki!” it said, stuffing flying out as it bounded off. “Bye, Twilight! I hope you come back soon!”
“Get her here,” Twilight snapped, catching the puppet’s attention once again. “Now.”
“What, you want me to go out and holler for her? When she’s out, she’s out, no plumb thing I can do about it.” Its tone softened, and Twilight hated it for it. “I’m sorry, sugarcube.”
“Don’t,” Twilight hissed, “ever call me that again.”
The puppet nodded courteously. “‘Scuse me, your majesty. Won’t happen again. Still. She ain’t here, I don’t know where she went, and I don’t know when she’s coming back.”
For the briefest of seconds, Twilight Sparkle saw in her mind’s eye the orange puppet turned to smoky cinders before her.
“When she comes back,” she said, every word soaked in venom, “tell her that she is expected at the castle immediately, or else I’m going to wipe this city off the map. And she better do it soon, because I don’t know if I’ll be able to wait until she comes. Am I clear?”
“...Crystal, your majesty,” it said. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Just make sure she comes,” Twilight spat before turning on her heels and stalking off, disgusted and indignant that she’d have to go home and, what? Wait for ‘The Lady’ to deign Twilight with an appearance? Nopony made Twilight Sparkle wait, and even less a sociopath like Singu—
“Queen Twilight! Wait!”
A foot away from the door, Twilight Sparkle stopped for the final time, not because her mind demanded it, but because her heart did. Because memories she’d failed to bury kept coming back from the dead.
If there was a sick humor to be found in the orange one sounding just like Applejack, the same did not apply to the voice arresting Twilight’s heart. This one, too, had a voice identical to its inspiration, just as gentle and kind, and all Twilight could think of was. Well.
She’s the only one left, Twilight! Please! I’m begging you! Just do it, we can’t lose her,   
I can’t lose her, too, just—Do it, Twilight. Or I will do it myself.
She didn’t dare look back. Not then, just as she’d barely been able to look at the creature every single time Twilight’d been forced to come to this artistically inclined hell. It was just too much to handle, even if she knew the sight of the creature would be nicer than the last memory she had of the real Fluttershy—sick and dying.
“Her boutique in Ponyville. The old one,” it said, strained. “I’ve… I’ve gone with her before. She has alarms there, they—She’ll know if somepony goes inside. You won’t have to wait long to see her.”
Twilight stood there a moment and then, the doors opening before her, left without another word.
Author's Note
https://camo.fimfiction.net/h1TaFSnmOqvnMrXHub7AnPElTZ70zMtgnQh45YWNfvE?url=https%3A%2F%2F64.media.tumblr.com%2F117ad10e9dd064f3712fcd6780a56bf1%2Fa6e7e536a11c18de-91%2Fs2048x3072%2Fdd581d8c599facbd805bb59b69432123e3a6d5d8.png
And if anyone is curious about who 'you-know-who' (https://64.media.tumblr.com/61c4d1946dbaf504333fc0ea82fa0587/a6e7e536a11c18de-60/s540x810/c4a774809334512e4f9e8ccd29ce575a842f2336.png) is.
If you like my work, please consider tipping me or subscribing on Ko-Fi! (https://ko-fi.com/monowriting) Writing is my secondary source of income, so every little bit helps c:

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                     i did it for you                      
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i did it for you
It had been a dark, stormy night when Fluttershy’s funeral took place, Twilight remembered.
If her mind hadn’t been consumed with grief, she might have thought many different things that day. Might have thought Rainbow Dash would have never allowed such weather on such a day; that Pinkie would have made it a bright, happy affair, meant to celebrate the pegasus; that Applejack would have given a beautiful, earnest speech, and somehow a dark day would have a light shining through.
But all she could think about was that out of six, only two remained.
And out of two, one was next in line to die soon.
And she should have.
Gods, she should have.
Moonlight guided her way through the winding roads of a town that hadn’t felt like home for longer now than it actually had been. Maybe, in a different time, if the dominos had fallen in another direction, maybe coming back to Ponyville would feel like coming back home.
Maybe she wouldn’t always have to come in the dead of the night, when it was harder to see how it had changed, and when it was less likely others would bother her when visiting the local graveyard.
But this wasn’t about things long gone. Quite the contrary, really.
This, Twilight reflected as she looked up at Carousel Boutique, was about things that refused to die.
It looked the same. That was, perhaps, the worst part of having to go there, that it looked just the same as it did in memories she avoided revisiting. Every inch of it, from the colorful blue walls, to the decorative pillars and pony sculptures lining the bottom and upper floors—it was almost too easy to pretend for just a moment that if she knocked, if she called out a name she’d not said in so long, the door would open and…
The monarch forced herself forward, shoving away distracting thoughts. She dealt with the locked door easily enough, only just noticing the spark of magic that flickered and died at her action. Probably one of the alarms the puppet had mentioned. Good.
Much like the exterior, the interior of Carousel Boutique was exactly as she remembered it, which was impressive considering it had been destroyed centuries ago. The walls gashed with dark magic had been painted over, the furniture ripped to pieces by a creature who was barely in control of her own mind had been perfectly repaired, and all the rest, framed pictures and sentimental decorative objects Twilight remembered shattered on the floor, well, they were there too.
She wished they weren’t.
Stepping forward and picking up a framed photograph of a unicorn who wasn’t dead but was certainly no longer there, Twilight Sparkle thought it would have been better if Carousel Boutique had burned down that stupid, fateful day. Better for it to be rubble than a shadow of its former self.
Speaking of which.
“Well, well, well,” purred the final charade of her friends as Twilight turned around to face her, the grand master couturier herself. “If it isn’t our majesty, Twi-light Spark-le.”
Rarity had been beautiful.
Lady Singularity, however, was sublime.
Sublime like arctic cliffs, like dawns that promised storms, a great and merciless vista that hooked into Twilight's hindbrain and promised destruction with style. She was in a league of her own, entirely by dark magic design.
Her eyes - her eyeline on a par with Twilight's - ablaze a pale blue aura, could have been stars set in place, and they were in a way. Two stars set against a coat as black as night, the inversion of its color from long ago. Her dusk-dark mane, drifting behind her and fraying at the edges into designs beyond sight, curled and slithered and all but seemed to stalk Twilight.
The only things about Singularity that recalled a charming unicorn from so long ago were the following three: the silver streaks she’d acquired as an older mare, forever a condemnation that she had violated the sacrosanct law that all things must live and must die; the Element of Generosity clinging to her neck, the dark magic pouring out the cracked gemstone the reason Equestria’s most powerful defense had been crippled for more than a century; and finally…
The triple diamond cutie mark on her flank, forever a reminder that this… this creature had once been her best friend.
“Singularity.”
Singularity had the audacity to smile pleasantly.
“Why, your majesty, what are you doing in this old place?” she said, stepping into the boutique, the door closing behind her with a wisp of magic. Her voice was the same. Twilight wished it wasn’t. “Don’t tell me you came to reminisce.”
It had been a long day for Twilight, on the back of a longer couple of months, on the back of a long, long life. So, she got straight to the point.
“What are you doing to ponies?”
Singularity blinked and then recognition filled her gaze. “Oh. This again. And here I thought we might have a nice chat for once. Ah well. Would you like some tea?”
“What are you doing to them?!” Twilight demanded once again, eyes burning into Singularity as she walked past Twilight and into the kitchen. “Tell me now.”
“I think I still remember your favorite!” her voice exclaimed from within the kitchen, followed in short order by her head peeking out, eyelashes fluttering. “Apple cinnamon, two spoons of sugar?”
Twilight stormed in after her. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Mmm? What am I doing to ponies?” Singularity looked away from the simmering pot of water and levitated over two cups and some tea, the once pale blue magic now a crackling, sizzling purple. “I can’t say I know what you mean, my liege, unless you mean constantly save them from their own taste in clothes.” Her gaze met Twilight’s, and again the insolent smile returned as she poured water into the cups and floated one towards Twilight. “For you.”
Twilight did not budge an inch.
“Or not!” Singularity poured the drink down the drain and then turned back to Twilight, sipping from her own drink. “Mmm. I do love tea.”
“Two ponies came to see you a few months ago. A couple,” Twilight said. “I know they did, and I know you did something to them.”
Singularity tilted her head to the side. “Did I? You’ll have to remind me of their names, I’m afraid. If I kept track of every trivial little pony that had come to me wanting something, well.” She sipped her tea. “We’d be here for ages!”
“...Trivial little pony?” Twilight asked, the bile forming in the pit of her stomach burning the rest of her.
“Mm. Is that too harsh? But it’s not untrue, is it?” The empty cup floated towards Twilight. “Are you sure about the tea? It really is very goo—”
She did not flinch in the slightest when a flick of raspberry magic flung the cup against the wall, and when she looked up from the shattered pieces towards the glowering Twilight, her nose was lightly scrunched up in distaste.
“Well! Really? Did that make you feel better, your majesty?” She clicked her tongue. “ I thought you were the Queen of Equestria, not Yakyakistan.”
“Their names were Turnover and Oakewood,” Twilight hissed. “The mare was dying.”
Singularity’s eyes narrowed, and then widened innocently. “...Oooooh! Oh, them. I remember now, yes, yes.” Cup of tea floating behind her, she walked past Twilight out of the kitchen and into the foyer. “They wanted a dress, that’s right. One of her dying wishes, I believe, for which I can’t blame her. I made her a beautiful blue gown with—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Twilight snarled, pursuing the unicorn into the next room. “They didn’t come to you for a sundamned dress.”
Singularity spun on her heels. “But they did. I made them a dress, and it was beautiful, and if you’d visited me at my proper boutique rather than playing these silly little games, I’d show you the sketches myself. I can have them delivered to you, if you want. Oh, why, I might even sign them.” She winked at Twilight. Winked. “A singularly Singularity original.”
“Stop. Playing. Games! I’m sick of them!” Twilight’s hoof slammed against the floor. “Before they went to see you, she was dying. She was terminally ill! And then she went to see you and suddenly she’s not dying?”
Singularity laughed, and it was with genuine delight. “My! Really? I’ve always known my dresses were to die for, but this is the first time I’ve been told they’re to live for.” She put the cup down on a table and stepped towards Twilight. “And why are you upset, then? Even if I did do something, it would seem that it healed this pony. Is that not good, your majesty?”
“They were in love when they left!” Twilight exploded, her wings flaring. “They’ve been married for most of their life, but then they come back from meeting you to get a divorce? Because they fell out of love?”
Singularity looked at her as though she were an idiot. “Who do you think I am? A changeling? Waltzing around, extracting true love out of married couples? Stars, I wish I were a changeling, then I could do something about my horn. It could be a little longer, I think.”
“You took something from them! I know you’re doing something to them!” Twilight stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “I have hundreds of records of dozens of ponies going to see you, and every single one coming back wrong.”
Singularity blinked, looking vastly more curious than threatened. “...Hundreds of records, you say?”
“East Ridge,” Twilight began, “an architect, went to see you and then came back to leave his entire family, change his name and move to the undiscovered west. Ruby Rose, from Fillidelphia, went to see you and then lost her eyesight a week later for no reason that made any kind of sense. Knowledge Quill! One of Equestria’s most respected academics! Went to see you and a month later was kicked out from the academic board of Trottingham for spreading conspiracy theories. I could go on and on.”
If Singularity had anything to say to that, it was this:
“But she got married.”
“...What?”
Singularity smiled politely. “Ruby Rose? Wasn’t she that rags-to-riches story of a mare from a downtrodden family who ended up marrying one of the richest nobles in Canterlot? I assume that’s why you know of her. I made her wedding dress, and believe me, your majesty, she seemed happy I did. She may be blind, but she will never want for anything ever again! Ah, ah!” She’d raised her hoof when Twilight’s mouth opened. “I’m not done.”
“Granted,” she continued, “I don’t know what happened to East Ridge after I delivered my most fashionable explorer’s outfit, but Knowledge Quill comes to see me regularly, and you know what, your majesty? He may be disgraced, but from what his wife tells me, his daughter has never been happier than with her father home all the time.”
If looks could kill, Twilight bitterly thought. If looks could kill.
Singularity raised an eyebrow. “Really, you disappoint me. I’d expect this from anypony else, but from you? If you’re going to accuse me of—whatever it is you’re accusing me of? Controlling reality and pony’s fates, apparently?—then at least have the decency to include all the facts rather than cherry-picking the ones that serve your narrative.”
“I’m not—You—!”
“Where did you even get this information from?” Singularity interrupted.
“What? Why does that matter?”
“These ‘dozens’ of ponies I’ve supposedly altered for the worse. How do you know of them?” She blinked at Twilight. “Did they come to you? Because, you know, a satisfied customer will recommend your services to maybe two or three other ponies, but an unhappy one will tell everypony and their dearest mothers how your services are atrocious, so…” She gestured vaguely. “If you have all this information on my clients and my proceedings, then I assume it’s because they came to you directly to complain?
“No,” Twilight said through gritted teeth.
“Nooooo?!” Singularity gasped. “So none of these—not a single one—has complained? My dear, I do so love having such an impeccable track-record, but I can’t deny I’m curious as to how you would know so much about my dealings.” She paused, and when she smiled, it was predatory. “Unless these hundreds of records are ones you gathered yourself?”
At Twilight’s expression, she screeched with delight, her voice a ram battering at gates Twilight was struggling to keep shut.
“You did? Oh, your majesty.” A hoof landed on her chest, right over her heart. “Oh my.”
Twilight stepped back, horrified, mortified, arrested by all sorts of appalling emotions, but before she could even open her mouth, before she could say a single word…
“Your majesty!” Singularity’s eyes were radiant, sparkling diamonds, thirsting for blood. “But you’re OBSESSED with me! My stars!”
“No,” Twilight shot back, the desperation in her own voice enraging her all the more.
“But you are!” Singularity continued, bathing in Twilight’s every emotion. “Keeping tabs on anypony who ever sees me? Keeping tabs on everything I do? Why, I’ve had my fair share of stalkers, but none as dedicated as you!”
And there she was—in the way she fluttered her eyelashes, her tail practically swishing behind her, the wide grin—the ghost of Rarity the unicorn.
“That’s exceedingly deranged of you,” she said, “but your majesty, I am flattered.”
Twilight slammed her hoof against the floor, her horn crackling with magic. “No,” she thundered, sick to have her intentions twisted so. “I’m protecting ponies from you!”
Singularity nearly choked on her laughter. “Protecting them? Protecting them from what? My dresses? Or is it maybe these dark magic services you insist I offer, which, may I remind you, are apparently done with full consent and zero complaints from these ponies you claim to protect? Oh, darling, dearest, please.”
There was nothing Twilight could say, for though she was one of the most well-read ponies in Equestria and beyond, there was not a single word in her entire vocabulary that could encompass how she felt.
So, Singularity continued.
“I really am flattered. To know that the Queen of Equestria spends her time completely devoted to me? Pouring over records she wrote herself, documenting my vast influence in this land? And here I thought that Coeur de Couture was my grandest abode, but it seems your brilliant mind is my one true home.” She stepped forward, drawing so close, purring her words as much as she was hissing them. “Tell me, Twilight Sparkle, when you go to bed at night and close your eyes, do you fall asleep thinking of me?”
A thundercrack of magic flooded the room, and when it died, Singularity was several steps away, grinning behind the translucent barrier that had absorbed Twilight’s attack.
“My, my, my!” She lifted a hoof and wagged it to the side, back and forth. “Temper, temper, Twilight.”
“You’re intolerable,” Twilight hissed.
“Absolutely unbearable?” Singularity suggested. “Insufferable, even?”
“There is no word for what you are. I could spend a thousand years in a library looking for it, and I would come up short. It does not exist,” Twilight snarled. She advanced on the barrier, horn aflame with magic. “Everything about you, Singularity. You are the worst thing that has happened to this realm, bar none.” She smiled wryly. “Of course, I don’t know what I was expecting. I don’t know what I have ever expected from you, putting the entire kingdom at risk by corrupting the Elements of Harmony, dragging me and the rest of Equestria into your sunforsaken games, I—”
She cut herself off, three words gnawing at her throat.
“Oh, Twilight,” said the grand couturier herself. “You don’t know what you expected? But don’t you see? Nothing has changed! It’s just like old times. Me, being dramatic. You, driving yourself into a ramble over my theatrics. Look at us!” She tilted her head to the side, eyelashes fluttering as she giggled. “Exactly the same as we have always been, you and I. Oh, but I’m getting sentimental!”
Twilight’s wings bristled at this, venom poisoning her soul. “No. There is nothing about you that is the same. How dare you—”
“But I do! I do dare,” Singularity cut off. “And, Twilight, really, I would dare some more, but it’s late and, personally, I’m done with this conversation.” She covered a yawn with her hoof. “You should leave. You have absolutely no evidence what-so-ever of me being responsible for anything beyond dressmaking, and though some need it more than others, we should all try and get some beauty sleep, mm?”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell it is you’ve been doing to ponies.”
“Fine.” The barrier dropped, and after offering Twilight a most polite smile, she stepped off towards the hallway leading to the old workroom. “Suit yourself, your majesty.”
“Just tell me.” Desperation for this to be over, for this hell to be done, soaked her words as she followed the unicorn, the last vestiges of hope rearing their mangled head. “There has to—There has to be some part of you still in there.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Singularity replied, disappearing inside a room, and then adding with the slightest bit of a tone. “On both accounts.”
“Just tell me. Tell me what you’re doing,” Twilight demanded, stepping into the workshop, the place just the same as it had been before… before… “I can’t even—! I don’t even care about stopping you, I just want to KNOW! Why are you—!”
A tongue of purple magic lashed out from Singularity’s horn, and a horrifying symphony of metallic roaring and clattering and whirring assaulted Twilight’s ears as every single sewing machine in the room turned on. Machines once used by a talented seamstress to create some of Twilight’s most precious memories now used to silence her.
“Whaaaaaat?” Singularity yelled over the noise. “So sorry, your majesty, I simply just can’t hear you over the sound of my beautiful work!”
And as if to drive the point home, to plant her disdain like a banner in Twilight’s heart, she casually turned her back on Twilight, and slowly, deliberately, began to peruse the bolts of fabric piled high in a nearby cabinet.
Another blaze of magic, raspberry now, and the mechanical whirring came to a sudden stop. Every single sewing machine spat sparks, dribbled smoke, and died.
A moment of silence, the unicorn’s eyes roaming the machines, and when her gaze met Twilight’s, for the first time, anger shone through.
“...I made the gala dresses with those,” she said. “I made your coronation dress with those. I made Applejack and Rainbow’s wedding dresses with those.”
“They’re dead,” Twilight said, “no matter how many fucking puppets you make of them.”
“I see.” A glacial smile thinned her lips. “I’m invoicing you for all those, by the way. And they were antique, too. That ought to cost you a pretty pen—”
“Shut UP!” Twilight boomed. “Shut the HELL up! I’m tired of this. I’m—!”
And then she said it.
“Rarity.” The name burned her soul, decayed and rotting from disuse. “Please. I know you’re somewhere in there inside this monster.”
“No.”
For the first time, Singularity’s voice was raised. Offended and indignant, and when she stepped forward, she was seething.
“There is no other me. There is only me, only has been me! There isn’t somepony else in front of you. I am exactly the same pony now as I was when I was damned to meet you.” Another step forward. “This is me, Twilight. Sin-gu-la-ri-ty. Chic!”
Another step.
“Unique!”
And a final one.
“And ma-gni-fique!”
There they stood, at the edge of a gaping cliff, and yet.
“No,” Twilight hissed. “I can’t accept that. If that’s true, then Rarity is dead, because you’re not her.”
“No? Then kill me, Twilight.”
“...What?”
“If I’m not Rarity,” she said. “If I’m really somepony else, then you should have no issues killing me. So do it.”
When Twilight did not budge, Singularity continued.
“Come now, your majesty! Do it! It would be easy! You really could just do it.”
“You know,” Twilight growled, “I just might.”
“Ooooooooh? Really! Here then, use this.” Scissors levitated before Twilight, snapping open and shut. “You are the queen, are you not? No one will question you, it would be easy. You could even lie, say that, oh, I don’t know—” She raised a hoof against her forehead. “I went insane! Completely out of my mind, and I tried to kill you. Everypony will believe you. Twilight Sparkle, you could kill me and get away with it. So do it.” She tapped her neck, right on the carotid artery. “Right here.”
When Twilight did not budge, Singularity laughed, the chiming of her voice so gentle one would have a hard time separating disgust from pity.
“Ah yes,” she said. “You were always one to hesitate when it came to matters of life or death, n’est-ce-pas?”
For all she was, as powerful as the corrupted element had made her, Singularity was not quick enough. The sound of her body slamming against a wall with a sickening thud came first, and Twilight came next, their bodies inches away from each other as Twilight’s magic held her against the wall, Singularity’s head turned slightly to the side, the hoof pressed against it merely a show of force.
“You’re right.” Twilight’s voice, low and precise, felt entirely beyond her, like some other version of her was speaking. Hers but not quite. “It would be fast.”
For once, Singularity was quiet. Eyes on Twilight and only her.
“Oh? No remark, Singularity? Nothing to say? Huh!” The scissors floated up from the floor, its tip brushing a spot on the unicorn’s neck, right above where Twilight’s hoof was. “Scissors are messy. Imprecise. Actually, I think magic should be enough. Quick and easy, and I wouldn’t have to waste more time than I already have. Hm.” She tapped the scissor’s blade on Singularity’s neck twice, like a quill on parchment, thoughtful. “Nopony knows you’re here. Do they?”
Singularity’s eyes widened. “No,” she said, “they do not.”
If Twilight felt something, it was not just satisfaction at the very real fear filling Singularity’s eyes, but surprise at something else entirely. Twilight Sparkle, you see, had lived for quite some time now, a couple of centuries in fact, and with age comes a numbness of emotions. When things happen over and over, they don’t feel quite so raw.
But here? There and then, in that moment, when you’ve been pushed beyond reason, caught in that singular space at the edge of no return, well…
She felt thrill.
She felt a terrible perverse sort of thrill, heady and intoxicating and consuming, but she only barely acknowledged that this emotion had been there all along. It had been there, from the moment Singularity arrived, putting on different outfits—hate, fury, contempt, pain, and now thrill—each one and the same because, in the darkest part of her soul, in this moment more than ever, she felt things like she hadn’t in a very long time.
Felt alive like no one else could make her feel.
“Why did you do this? There’s no point in not telling me. It’s over no matter what you do, so you might as well just tell me.”
“I wasn’t going to do it,” Singularity replied, her voice subdued and quiet.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“But it is. When they came to me, months ago,” she continued, every word precisely woven, “I was too busy. I had more important matters than to help a stallion and his wife, and I only considered it because she was dying. Because I know what it means to be helpless to save somepony you love. But that’s not why I really did it. Do you know what made me finally agree? It was because they mentioned working for you. I did it,” she said, “because I knew it would make you mad.”
Twilight’s magic grasp loosened on her, and she continued.
“Look at that,” she said, lifting her hoof to brush back Twilight’s bangs, just like before, just as they once had been, the worst of friends, you and I, “I guess I’m a little obsessed with you, too.”
The whole entire world came to a spinning stop around Twilight.
“I would do it. I would kill you if I could, and oh, the thought has crossed my mind.” As much as there was malice in her voice, there was desperation. “I have thought about killing you so many times. I have wanted it, thought about it, for being a coward, for being too afraid and caught up in your sunforsaken ethics when you couldn’t do what had to be done, as we were dying one by one. But I can’t, because if you’re gone, darling,” she said, “then the only audience that matters will be gone, too.
“So, do it. End it,” she finished, “and when we meet in hell, you’ll have to tell me if it’ll fill the void in your chest, because I’m dying to know.”
Silence.
There was not a single sound, nothing but the breathing of Singularity and Twilight both intermeshed, only broken when the scissors clattered to the ground, followed shortly by Singularity herself, landing on the floor with a thud.
“No,” Twilight whispered, stepping back. “It’s over.”
“It’s over? What do you mean ‘it’s over’?” Singularity hissed, completely thrown off whatever precarious balance she existed on. “Do it, Twilight! Do it!”
“No,” Twilight repeated, every word out of her mouth calm. “I won’t.”
“You—! You—! Coward! You—!” Deranged was not an apt word to describe her, and neither was insane or maniac. She was everything and nothing, appalled, arrested, indignant. “You have vanquished monsters beyond measures, you were our leader! Kill me! You—!” Singularity stood up, seething, demented. “You let them die, but you’ll let me live?”
“Yes,” Twilight replied. “I will.”
“Why?!”
Twilight looked at her and thought about the answer. One could say it was penance, what she had to live with because of the role she played in creating Singularity, starting with creating the spell that enabled her to exist. Both would have to live with the consequences of their actions.
One could also say Singularity was right, and Twilight was no different than her, the two of them locked in a demented duet that made them feel alive just as much as it killed them, the two performing only for each other, the rest of Equestria unwilling spectators.
Maybe both were true at the same time.
Ultimately, however, the why did not matter.
“Because I don’t care enough,” she said.
“What? Yes, you do,” Singularity insisted. “Who are you trying to kid?”
“But I’m not,” Twilight said. “I’m done. I don’t care what you do. Go. Go and do whatever the hell it is you do to ponies, again and again, but I’m done caring. You’re right. I don’t have evidence, and you apparently have their consent, so.”
“You’re lying. You do care.”
“I guess we’ll just have find out,” Twilight replied, turning on her heels and walking away. “But I don’t think I am.”
And maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. This, too, mattered little. All that mattered was the anguish in Singularity’s voice signaling that she, at least, certainly did not think Twilight was lying.
And that?
That felt good.
“Twilight.” Singularity chased after her, anguish bleeding into hate, the two one and the same, Twilight stopping by the door. “You’ll come back. You will like you always bloody do, every single time.”
And maybe she would. She probably would. Maybe in a week, maybe in a month, maybe in a year or ten or a hundred, but right now? Right then?
Twilight Sparkle glanced back.
“Goodbye, Rarity.” Drinking up Rarity’s wide eyes, the expression on her face, Twilight opened the door and stepped out. “I’d say I’ll see you in hell, but it looks like you’re already there.”
Author's Note
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