All Sisters Go to Heaven

by FrozenPegasus

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sweetie Belle, Sad, Rarity
Length: 25871

Sweetie Belle is in a coma and running out of time. Rarity enters her subconscious, desperate to discover the truth and save her, forgoing sleep and teetering on the very edge of sanity.

Sweetie Belle is in a coma. The nature of her condition is known, but the surrounding context and circumstances remain a mystery - a mystery Rarity will stop at nothing to solve, despite stress and insomnia pushing her to the very edge of sanity. Following a plan she can no longer remember, she must face her own demons and dive ever deeper into her fading sister's subconscious, though nothing could prepare her for the truth. A story about family, sacrifice, and acceptance.

Published 2013-04-12 19:20:03 UTC
Last updated 2013-04-12 19:20:03 UTC

All Sisters Go to Heaven

All Sisters Go to Heaven
By FrozenPegasus

Preread by
Meeester - Kolth

Edited and Critiqued by
Nyronus

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Dedicated to my sister, who pushed me to be so much more than I ever would have been on my own.
Wherever you are, I hope the sun is shining.

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I’m falling and I can’t remember why. I’m falling fast, so fast it’s hard to keep my eyes open. Nothing has a definitive shape, everything is blurring and shifting faster than gravity should allow. There are sounds, but they’re distorted; an aural cacophony of dialogue, noise, and music, all of which seem to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. I’m not falling, I’m flying. The lights and noises come faster and in greater volume. I want to close my eyes, but control over my eyelids is as paralyzed as the rest of me. Oddly, my weightlessness seems to lessen. Friction increases as I move towards the void. The lights and sounds and colors grab at me, trying to pull me back. The force pushing me forward is indescribably powerful, ignoring the efforts of the collage to grab more tightly, tighter and tighter still until it feels like I’m leaving parts of myself behind just to escape it. It’s getting unbearably cold-

And just like that, the motion ceases. The wind against my face sends relief through my chest like a flash flood. I haven’t opened my eyes yet, still recovering from the dizziness of whatever the blazes just happened. The relief only multiplies when the senses from the rest of my body return to me and I take comfort in the sensation of solid ground under my hooves – no, not solid ground exactly; It gives way ever so slightly under my weight as I lean from one foreleg to the other. I get the courage to open my eyes, and what I see is both tranquil and confusing: The ocean tide ebbs onto the sand a few meters in front of me, receding only to creep forward once more. I’ve got nothing against salt water, it’s the blasted sand I take issue with. Nothing destroys a manicure faster and sticks around longer. Well, I suppose glitter is equally difficult to get rid of, but I’d take unwanted sparkling over unwanted itching any day.

Move.

The singular thought crashes through consciousness like the waves, over and over again.

MOVE.

I don’t know what I’m meant to be moving towards, but the sense of urgency is palpable, an unpleasant taste in my mouth that airs on the sour side of panic. There’s nothing but ocean in front of me, and deserted beach on either side.

Think Rarity, think!

A look behind me confirms previous suspicion that I am indeed in the middle of nowhere. If I squint, I can just barely make out ivory towers spiraling upwards on the horizon to the east – Canterlot, but it’s at least a day’s walk away.

I spot a wagon after scanning the road for the third time. How did I miss that? It takes me a few seconds to realize the transport itself isn’t going anywhere. It’s simply stopped, stalled in the middle of a worn down road for seemingly no reason in particular. As I begin to trot towards the carriage the only sound is the crunch of my hoof steps on the sand, which immediately strikes me as odd. Pausing mid-step, I turn around to look at the ocean. A wave rolls in as if nothing has changed since I last looked, but I’m certain the sound of the tide was absent only a moment ago-

MOVE

I’m sprinting towards the carriage at full gallop now, previous thought discarded with the growing sense of panic in my chest. As I draw closer small details of the transport become definitive and familiar. It occurs to me that all this wind and running is probably doing a number on my poor mane but I try not to think about that. The chestnut earth-pony chauffeur is staring into nothingness, unmoving. He is unimportant. I circle around, horn glowing as I turn the brass handle and tear the carriage door open only to find it empty.

The faux-suede seats are devoid of inhabitants and clutter – however, the magazine’s cover story on the floor gives me pause. “The New Face of Fashion: A Mare from Nowhere.” The issue is a few years old, I recognize it mostly because the same copy happens to be framed in my office. The cover picture is a fronted by a self-important designer pony holding an award, peering over her scarlet horn-rimmed glasses at the camera in a pose that’s trying much too hard to say “I’m not actually striking a pose.” It’s almost too easy to imagine her thoughts. Sure she’s famous now, but that doesn’t matter. She has ideals, standards. Of course she won’t let the industry change her; distract her from what’s truly important. Maybe it does happen to everypony, but not her. She’s different, an exception to the rule.

She’s special.

I drop it with a distaste I can’t entirely explain. It circulates the air as it falls, and a familiar scent of marshmallow mingled with roses reaches my nose. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but in this moment a smell is devastatingly more affecting, invoking a millisecond of recognizant agony that brings much of the when, where, and why of everything flooding back to me

I wish it hadn’t. Oh dear Celestia I wish it hadn’t.

My head snaps around so quickly it my neck pops, previous vague sense of urgency now fully focused as I desperately scan my surroundings, squinting in the looming sun. You can’t have gone far. It takes far too long for me to see the small motionless form, leaning against a tree at the top of the ridge overlooking the bay.

I move. The wind itself seems to fight against me, gusts of air trying to pull my hoofs out from under me as I scale a hill that grows ever steeper. Small strands of pink and fuchsia beckon me forward, the colors of your mane both my confirmation and beacon. I’m so close it’s agonizing. You’re the only pony who can answer the questions that haunt me every waking moment, but more than answers I simply want to hear your voice once more. I want to see you, to see you see me and know that you know I’m by your side, even if I’m not.

“Sweetie-“ My voice catches in throat. I pant, rushing to rub the moisture that suddenly blurs my vision away. I should be made of sterner stuff at this point, or at the very least fresh out of tears.

“Rarity?” The question is music, a plucky staccato at the end of a particularly somber phrase. The flightless angel with eyes of emerald has turned toward me, and now stares perplexed. There is so much I need to say, but thoughts refuse to form into sounds. Urges to rush forward and pull you close are countered by fear that touching a mirage might somehow dispel it.

Your face falls. “I see. Another dream.”

No. Well yes. I mean kind of. There’s no time to respond before everything else does. The world begins to shake violently in rebuttal. I can hear my teeth chattering like a tone-deaf xylophone. You turn away from me, looking out over the bay once more, voice devoid of emotion, “I was so scared. Almost broke down and told you. We didn’t get much of a chance to spend time together the last time anyway, you’d been so busy getting the new place in Canterlot off the ground.”

The rumbling grows, a dull creaking noise cuts through the silence as the ledge supporting an oak tree further down collapses, yanking its roots out as it tumbles out of sight into the water below. Sweetie doesn’t move. You might as well be made of stone. “It wasn’t until I passed by here I remembered why I couldn’t. Remembered what it would do to you.”

You're looking in the direction of the nearby hill, but it’s merely that - a hill I’ve never seen before. there’s nothing particularly noteworthy about it or the coastline other than an odd inkling of deja vu. If anything, the hill seems to be shimmering more than the rest of the surrounding area - looking at it for too long is strangely disquieting.

“As much as I wish you were here, you’re not. This is just a dream.” A vulnerability that wasn’t there before interrupts my thoughts. Your shoulders sink ever so faintly as the world turns inside out all around us. Something bumps against my chest - A reflective silver locket that looks plain but feels infinitely more important. I take it off and stretch outwards, barely managing to slip it around your neck before the winds take me. I can’t move anymore as my hooves are no longer touching the ground - something pulls me flying backward the same force and pressure on my skull from earlier, only exponentially stronger. Everything goes black.

***

Floating isn’t really the right word. It’s more like I’m being pulled along by an undercurrent, below the surface but above the ocean floor, straddling the line between two completely different planes of existence. It’s a relaxing sensation - or at least, relaxing as the sensation of drowning is ever going to get.

I can hear the muffled sound of a heated argument happening somewhere on the surface above me. One is hysterical, the other is forceful yet calm. If I concentrate, I can almost make out the most of what they’re saying.

“… I’m putting a stop to this. This is a hospital, you can’t just come in here and do as you please!”

“I agree entirely. However, that is not the case. I’m acting at Ms. Rarity’s behest. There were no problems with the sieve but there were complications after the fact. There’s a written letter of consent in my satchel I can retrieve if you wish-”

“Consent? Consent?! It doesn’t matter whose consent you have! You can’t just come in here and cast spells on an underage coma patient because somepony in her family – who I really only need to glance at to see that she’s not in the best state of mind – asked you too. You’re not qualified –

“Enough! Dr. Redheart, I respect you and your profession. I know that our research has clashed on occasions, but that’s never lessened my opinion of you as a practitioner.”

“That’s neither here nor there-“

“It is in fact here and there. Disregard my place in the government for a moment. I have five PHD’s, all of which were obtained outside of the EQ to ensure fairness. One of said Doctorates is in medicine, another in the curative arcane. I passed the BAR and received my legal license several months ago. My position at the side of the princess is irrelevant to the fact that I am entirely qualified for this.”

“But to keep her in psychological suspension for so long-”

“That’s just it. I’m not keeping her there. Something else is. Pull her out now and you risk causing permanent damage. I assume that’s not what you want.”

“No... of course not. I – I understand Dr. Sparkle. It’s just… concerning to see the older sister undergoing so much mental duress in her current state.”

“I don’t like it either, trust me. To be honest I’ve never seen her like this, ever. Even after…”

“… The mother had the same condition? I knew … was genetic, but I thought the probability of early onset was nearly…”

“It is.The odds are astronomical … horrible luck.”

“That’s incredibly… We caught it early, I don’t understand why the younger sister kept it… for so long?”

“ … part of what we’re trying to find out.”

“I... don’t …. …Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you Dr. Redheart. I think some peace and quiet will do for now – Wait, actually there is one thing. Do you have any idea how much sleep she’s gotten? I know it’s standard policy to give family members of hospice patients as much privacy as possible, but maybe you can guesstimate by how much time she’s spent in her guest room?”

“… been assigned one but she hasn’t visited it. Judging from what the nurses have said she had yet to leave that chair next to the bed. Nopony’s seen her sleep. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen her with her eyes closed for longer than a blink.”

“Matriarch take me… and it’s been…?”

“… More than 72 hours, probably closer to eighty…”

Doctor Redheart’s estimation seems off by a couple centuries. It occurs to me that I’m no longer hovering between two simple planes. I’m moving much faster laterally, sliding towards something unknown.

***

“My bear bwoke.” My little sister informs me. I’m not trying to ignore you – I have every intention of asking what a bwoke is - but crocheting is tough. Holding two things at once is really hard by itself, but when you have to actually move them simultaneously? It’s super hard. Mommy told me I was doing great but said I should slow down when my head started to hurt.

I might be being a little disobedient.

“Ouches!” I yelp, dropping the big needles. Levitation aches are nothing new, but when they bunch up in my forehead and spring into the back of my skull it always unsettles me.

“Rari… hurt?” You waddle over, stretching to place your chin on my lap. It’s amazing how tiny you are. The overwrought concern your eyes induces a slight panic, however.

“Rari no hurt.” I pat you on the head comfortingly. “Er — I mean, I’m not hurt. It stings a little sometimes but goes away fast.”

Your face only becomes more confused. “If it hurts … why?”

Placing the crochet progress and ball of yarn to the side, I pull you onto my lap, reaching around to the yarn and continuing to work. “I don’t do it because it hurts. I do it because I want a finished scarf faster.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Why?”

I’ve had a sibling for long enough to recognize the trap I’ve fallen in, but I still have no idea how to evade it. There’s only one possible escape, and it’s a long shot. I lean down and blow raspberries on your tummy. “Little Sweet Bee’s so cute, yes she is, oh she’s just such a little darling!” You flail wildly, trying to pull away in a fit of giggles as I block your escape. As a finishing touch, I lean forward to grab the previously forgotten stuffed animal and let it hover in front of you. “Now, what were you saying was wrong with Mr. Bear?”

Your smile lessens at the sight of the wounded toy, which I can’t help but feel slightly guilty over. The bear is turned over to reveal an oval shaped tear on his inner thigh.“He—“ you stop suddenly, eyes narrowing into a look I’ve never seen before. “No!”

“No?”

“Why!”

It’s more of an exclamation than a question, and this time I can’t suppress the groan. “You don’t even know what you’re asking ‘why’ about!”

“Do too—mf!” You take a mouth full of the turquoise ball of yarn and proceed to try and struggle away with it while never breaking eye-contact. I jolt forward and manage to snag you just before you’d have circumvented my grasp.

“Okay, fine. But you have to promise not to ask why again.” I grumble.

“Kay!” You bobble.

“What month is it?”

“Febroomary?”

“February.”

“Febrairy!” You throw both forelegs in the air triumphantly. I can’t bring myself to correct you a second time

“Close enough. And February’s pretty cold right?”

“Right—“

An explosion of wet sounding coughs erupt from the master bedroom for what feels like close to a minute. Mommy’s awake. She’s probably still in bed.

“Well…” I pause for a moment to make sure nopony’s listening in, or lingering outside the doorway. “Scarves are nice because they keep out the cold and warm ponies up. Sometimes…” I look away awkwardly, “…by keeping a sick pony warm, that pony can start to get better.”

“Like Mommy?” The question catches me off guard. I try not to react as I can see you eying me carefully. I’m beginning to wonder if the whole developing toddler schtick is an act.

“Well, it’s not that Mommy’s really sick… but yes. Remember how she took us shopping and bought us all those warm things before the winter?”

“Uhuh?”

“She didn’t get anything for herself, even though all she has to keep her warm are those dreadful old sweaters.”

Your eyes grow wide as saucers. “Why?”

“Because mommy loves us. We don’t have a lot of bits, but she wants us to be warm and happy so much she’s willing to go without, even though she knows she gets sick really easy, and will probably end up hurting. That’s what love is, caring about somepony enough to be willing to hurt if it means they don’t have to.”

You bury your face in my coat, sniffling ever so quietly. I rub your back, wondering if I said too much. In a moment destined to stick in my memory forever, before I can figure out a way to apologize and make my words a little less perturbing, you slip away. The crochet is hoisted by mouth into my lap. Sitting across from me, you mirror my posture, holding the yarn like a living spindle.

“I help.”

***

The scene fades to black as I feel myself being pulled by the invisible current yet again. Pounding in my head syncs with monotonous beeping of unknown origin. Achy joints serve as a screaming indicator of consciousness, though my eyelids seem to be glued shut. Reality hits like a stiff kick in the everything. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes feels like using sandpaper to remove superglue.

Something tugs at my foreleg and stings ever so slightly. Needles. I hate needles. Ripping off the tape yanks out hair, causing my eyes to water – though the reflex tears go a long way to clearing my vision, the singular silver line on an otherwise gray ceiling. Pulling out the IV isn’t quite as bad as I expect it to be, but it still stings something awful. I hiss, applying pressure with a bit of tissue.

Returning sight leaves me wishing I was blind. Cards and flowers come into focus lining the shelf on the back wall, further cementing the source of the beeping to my right. I steel myself, trying to picture it in my head before I work up the courage to turn and look. It’s never a sight you get used to seeing, all those tubes and wires. It’s better if I prepare myself for it. Working myself up ends up being pointless as the curtain is partway closed, which makes me wonder why the curtain is partway closed.

“Welcome back Rarity. How did it go?” The answer reaches me in the form of a question. Twilight Sparkle watches me carefully from a chair in the corner. She must have teleported, because she certainly wasn’t there when I woke up. My thoughts are still scattered across several different time periods. I’m having trouble thinking straight, let alone figuring how to talk.

“G-Great... I got her the locket.” I manage in halting Equestrian. Twilight stands and trots to my bedside, placing a hoof under my chin and stabbing a bright beam of light into my sensitive pupils. “ACK.”

“Dialation is normal, no sign of brain damage or detached leylines.” A clipboard floats on the side, pen moving on its own. She makes a quick movement above my eyes. I feel the sharp tap on my forehead about five seconds later and wince. “Reaction time extremely delayed. Otherwise the patient reacted positively to the treatment. What locket?”

“The—” There’s a blank there. What was it for again? Something about Twilight’s mannerisms are distracting me. I can’t put my hoof on any individual quality: the tone, the body language, the nonchalant note taking – It all reeks of the pretentious self-satisfaction “Grand Advisor” Sparkle is so well known for—

Wait. What am I – no, that’s not right. Twilight’s my friend. Probably my best friend. She’s been on top of this since day one in seeking permission to use the higher magics – if it wasn’t for her we would never have been able to use the Noctis Sieve. Why do I feel this aggression towards her?

“I need you to put me back,” I say as amicably as I can manage. “Amicably” still comes out as something between a grunt and a command.

There’s no response given, just scribbling on a clipboard that is eventually set down as she removes her glasses. “It took a little longer than I would have liked, but I received confirmation that three high ranking Praetorians were indeed sent to the Zahara to locate your father – It’s a big continent, lots of infighting and conflict, so understand they may not be able to do retrieve him in—“ she catches herself, showing the first sign of visible emotion since I came to. “...in a feasible timeframe.”

“Twilight. If there’s something you need to say to me, say it.” It’s like speaking through another mare’s vocal cords. Every attempt to adopt a kinder tone is twisted as it comes out of my mouth, warping into something that sounds much more inflammatory. The side of her mouth twitches ever so slightly.

“Very well. I’m not sure how I feel about continuing with the spell.”

My stomach turns. “Why?”

“I’m a little disturbed that you lied to me, but to be honest that has nothing to do with it. It’s more how reckless – and dangerous — that lie was.” She leans down with a stern expression, but her foreleg touches my shoulder. “I need you to be honest, have you gotten any sleep in the last 24 hours?”

I shift uncomfortably.

“Last two days?” As the silence drags on her struggle to maintain stoicism becomes increasingly apparent. “Rarity, have you slept at all?”

“I slept during the sieve. Isn’t that enough?”

Her face screws up like a pony trying not to sneeze. She falls back into the chair with a thud, forelegs wrapped around the back of her neck like she’s trying to find something to hold on to and slipping. “Celest- no! Did you not hear anything I said— No that’s not how it works!” It occurs to me in an unsettling moment this may be the closest I’ve ever seen Twilight to falling apart for years. “You don’t sleep during a night sieve Rarity. There’s a reason Princess Luna – an alicorn in possession of no small amount of power – has to sleep the better part of every day to prepare for her responsibilities!”

“But you’re the one casting the spell –“

“All I’m doing is the magical equivalent of aiming a preloaded cannon. You are the projectile that expends energy to move forward. It literally drains you. Energy and willpower are all that guide you within another pony’s unconscious mind, if you’re already running low and lose track of yourself…” Her eyes are locked on the floor. “I could lose you. We all could.”

“We?”

“Yeah.” Involuntary shudders rack her body. “The girls are all here. I kicked them out when we started the dream sieve and you started whimpering and crying, because letting them sit in here without being able to shake you or wake you up – not that they didn’t try – only ended up making them cry, then I started tearing up, and then Spike picks the absolute worst possible time to take a peek in the window and gets the COMPLETE wrong impression and he starts crying – Have you ever seen a dragon going through puberty cry? We nearly had a flashflood on our hooves!”

“Sorry.”

“Yes well… you – urgh. I… I just wish you’d been upfront about it. Come back with me Rarity. You need sleep. Real sleep. I can stay with her in the meantime.” The half drawn curtain next to us constantly draws her eye. Shifting, twitching, never looking me full on. It is not guilt for something she’s done, but something she plans to not do. All it will take is pushing the right button to confirm my suspicions as something beyond delirious paranoia.

“No. I can’t do that. She needs me Twi, and I need you to put me back.”

Twilight stands up so fast her chair tips over; it’s caught an inch before it hits the ground, smacking back into place. “Livid” doesn’t begin to describe it. Rather, she is seething. “Did you not… hear a single word… I just said.” Her voice is emotionless and frigid. The manner in which it completely mismatches her posture and expression somehow makes it all the more terrifying. “You manipulated me into doing something that could have very easily killed you. You’re desperate. You’re bargaining. I loved your sister; I crossed multiple continents just to make it to her debut - but forcing somepony to do what you’re asking is beyond cruel. This needs to stop.”

The big ball of anger in my chest returns, this time without the built-in remorse.

Somepony starts screaming. It sounds like me.

Everything skips forward.

Twilight is nowhere to be seen. I’m still in the treatment room, the monotonous beeping behind the closed curtain driving me forward, driving me manic, driving me mad. My cheeks are wet but I don’t remember when or how that happened. The curtain’s pulled back. I’m not sure who pulled it. It could have been me, could have been her, could have been the beep beep beeping a final blow to my sanity. I’m outside of myself looking down at me looking down at you. Nothing exists but me and the two square yards in front me, the cold truth a black hole I can’t look at yet can’t look away from. Your appearance is a paradox — all grown up but you’re so very small, frail, and worn away. Your plump little belly has been replaced by a hollow cage. Your muzzle is covered by a round plastic mask that hisses ominously. A tube is hooked to the port in your stomach, siphoning bile out of your digestive tract because your body’s too weak to separate the good stuff from the bad stuff anymore. What kills me is they took away your feeding tube yesterday, just took it away and left you with an IV for fluids and the green stuff filling up from the pump underneath you your lips are chapped no matter how often I wet them with the sponge, the nurses don’t do it nearly enough it’s like they don’t care what is wrong with them you’re not a brain-dead vegetable you’re a pony and you should be treated like a pony why didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you tell me so we could face this together I would have spent every bit I had trying to figure this out for you and I still would I just don’t know if I can spend it all fast enough now I have to know there has to be something I’m missing some reason you needed to hide you wouldn’t do this to me without a reason please wake up please this doesn’t have to be real this could all just be some miscalculation or mistake doctors make mistakes please just let me do something anything just don’t make me sit here powerless and do nothing I don’t care how unlikely it is just let me try to fix you I don’t want you to suffer alone—

A hoof touches my back gently. My lungs explode outwards, sucking in air. At some point I’d entirely forgotten to breathe. Twilight rubs my back as I reteach myself to inhale.

Her voice is slow but assertive. “Two ground rules. If we do this, we do this my way. You’re to do what I tell you to do when I tell you – This is going to be incredibly unsafe, but I can at least minimize the chance of long term damage. Start hallucinating when you’re not in the sieve state, start undergoing experiences in session that aren’t based on either pony’s combined memory, and we’ve got a problem... Do. Not. Hide. That. From. Me. Are we clear?”

“Yes. Thank you…”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Twilight frowns, eyes never leaving the bed.

***

Silence follows the two of us like a cloud. I’m wearing a plain black dress with a grey cover up. Around my neck is a simple strand of pearls, no frills - as is appropriate. The small white filly holding my foreleg has been doing so throughout the ceremony like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. To be honest, I like your dress much more than mine, possibly because I made it for you. It’s black, but its fitted to you wonderfully with amethysts weaved into the shoulder cuffs and neckline. It’s the first dress I’ve made for you that I’ve genuinely been proud of — its just unfortunate you’ll never be able to wear it again without associating it with this.

Darkly clad and uniform, the ponies around us are a blur. Stop, smile sympathetically, pick a platitude, and move back into the merry-go-round elliptical of monochrome greys. Faces change while interactions are copied and pasted in an endless cycle of cordial repetition as we are swarmed yet totally alone. We are set apart from the parade of tissues and sniffling noses despite occupying the center-float. It is not that we are cold or uncaring, rather we are exhausted, drained of such resources in the long weeks leading up to this moment. Some of them judge us silently, finding our lack of expression offensive in the face of such tragedy. They cannot possibly understand that for us, this is a sad but inevitable resolution — the real tragedy was watching something sacred shrivel away into something unrecognizable: the mane loss, the screaming for stronger medication, the denial and the agony of watching her worsen day after day

Sweetie is stoic, your grip on my foreleg and occasional shudder the only display of outside emotion. Every time I’m fully conscious of you I reach down and stroke your mane behind your ear gently, just to remind you that I’m still here and you’re not alone. The numbers around us dwindle into single digits. The undertaker is trying not to look impatient but is obviously waiting for us to leave before he activates the lift. No need to get in the way of the pony’s job I suppose.

The walk with the Cake’s back to Sugar Cube corner feels inexplicably long. They’ve let us stay here ever since I sold the boutique. Pinkie’s hair is flat, but she makes an effort to smile and offer us something to eat. I decline. Sweetie says nothing, trotting up the stairs to the guest room we share. I stay downstairs a few minutes longer to chat - we are their guests after all, common courtesy dictates that pleasantries must be exchanged no matter the circumstances.

Our temporary room is color neutral, hues of off-white and beige — save the comforter in the center, a dark burgundy red which makes it the most eye drawing object in the otherwise drab space. You’re on your side, facing the opposite wall.. I already explained the plan before so there was no panic. We would make do. There were friends from Canterlot who were willing to lend the bits for me to open a new place there, and the Cakes had already offered to let you stay here indefinitely. No reason to separate you from your friends. We would be separated, but you would never be alone, I would make sure of it. It would all be okay. Unfortunately, making sure you knew everything ahead of time has formed a pitfall I could not forsee - As I’m now lacking words. I’m sitting on the bed across from you, but I have no extraneous syllables to utter, no inane details to establish, no pointless sounds to speak to make you turn towards me so I can see you and know that you’re still there — not just an empty shadow of a once happy little sister. Maybe we’d go to sleep and everything would be better in the morning. Maybe I’d wake up and everything would all be a dream. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve wished that wish far too many times to actually believe it - it’s just become something of a mantra, a thing I say that needs to be said simply for the saying of it, in case some omnipotent being fond of deus ex machina happens to be listening.

I want to reach over and hold you close, but even comfort itself seems trite at this point. We’ve all spent enough time wallowing in misery, why summon it where it is absent? Haven’t we grieved enough? We just need to sleep. Sleep will make everything better. I whisper it to myself as I lay down and wish for oblivion, but shun it in fear for what tomorrow will bring.

“Stop it. Just stop.” Your voice in the darkness puzzles me. I’ve relieved this memory a thousand times before and you’ve never broken the gloom. “It’s time to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because this is when you left, in a way.” Your voice is soft, choking on harsh words. “This is when caring became fearing, and fear was a measured thing you thought you could control.”

“You’re wrong.” The accusation makes me more angry than I can rationally explain. “I never stopped caring. I always had your best interests at heart.”

Sweetie laughs darkly, a cold sound from a voice usually chipper and bright. “Obviously.”

Wait— A mental image of a hospital room comes into focus with the single word, and the impact of both cause an indescribable amount of agony. The world begins to shimmer again, as if an imperceptibly translucent curtain is now being pulled more tightly over my eyes. Beneath the shadows, a silver locket around your neck glimmers in the dark, strangely out of place. Understanding strikes me moments before unconsciousness pulls me back into the deep once more despite my every effort to claw my way back to you.

***

“We’re going on vacation!” he says, without a hint of irony. Mother smiles in agreement, though her acting is significantly underplayed compared to his. I’m not sure how he manages it. Sweetie sets out to explore and rifle through my things, its all I can to do to keep myself from begging you not to disturb my work area before you disappear down the hall. As always, father and I wait to ensure you’re suitably preoccupied before dropping the niceties. Without a word I look pointedly to the back door and he follows me out, while mother remains inside to keep an eye on things.

Father’s smile disappears the moment the door shuts behind him, posture degenerating to the point he looks several inches shorter. My mother was always the one more interested the affairs of nobles, but father could win awards if his interests had taken him towards the dramatic art. The flask of bourbon comes out as it always does - I decline when he offers me a swig.

“So this place in Neighpon. You’re certain it holds some potential?”

“Don’t know. Eastern mysticism seems to be all the rage now days. Might be worth it, since we haven’t tried anything oriental yet. Lots of ponies swear by it.” He shrugs, sighing heavily. It can be immediately deduced from breath that the previous swig was not the first of the morning. “I don’t rightly know Rari. It’s got some good testimonials, some promising articles — but so did the last place in New Vealand.”

I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t declined the drink. He’s right of course, they all look good from the outside. The whole shtick of alternative medicine is that it takes advantage of ponies when they’re at their weakest - most aren’t outright scams, but that in and of itself is a difficult thing to prove when they openly admit their general overall success rate is so low.

“How much?”

He looks at me, sheepishly. “Tad more than the last place I’m afraid. They let ya' pay in installments though, so it ain’t that bad—”

“How much Dad?”

There’s a wince as I cut him off, followed by a moment of stillness I can almost hear him kicking himself in. “forty-five thousand over all, five thousand if you want to go the monthly payment route. But really Rari, I got some—”

I remove a note from my satchel, jotting down the full amount. 45k is a bit much, but not excessive — You’d be surprised how much you save living in your own shop.

“Take this by the bank on your way out of Ponyville. Better to take care of it all upfront than worry about interest traps in the fine print.”

“Guess we already learned that the hard way, huh.”

“We did indeed.”

“Can I ask you something Rarity, just, hypothetically?”

“Of course.”

“Do you ever think about just, runnin’ away from all this?”

What? I shake my head, perturbed by the line of questioning.

“No. I mean, where would mother be without us?”

“In a hospital” he retorts, too quickly to disguise the bitter subtext.

The same place she always is.

It’s a second before he recovers a modicum of composure, looking over at me apologetically. While this sort of gaffe is generally standard fare when his guard is lowered, the timing is unsettling.

“Father... are you trying to tell me something?

“Nah—” He kicks at the dust. “Just letting out hot air. I mean she’s been sick since you were a foal, you’ve never thought about it?”

“Absolutely not.” Though the answer is overly emphatic in hopes of extinguishing whatever sort of doubt he might be having, that doesn’t make it any less true. “I’ve come to love sewing, the shop, my life here separately, but all of that began as a means to an end – I’m not sure I’d know what to do with myself if I wasn’t burning the midnight oil for for somepony or something. You feel similarly on the subject, I’m sure.”

His eyes glaze over in a way I’m not sure I like. “Course I do. Nothing like a lost cause to get the blood pumping.” While we tend to have low points around each other, this level of bleakness is new coming from him. He must notice my concern as the glassy look is replaced by his usual loopy smile. “Don’t worry about me. You got enough on your plate takin’ care of Sweetie Belle ‘till we get back.”

“Hmph. She was nice enough at the door — But I’m sure some part of her still holds a grudge against me for moving out.”

“She’s a good girl, I’m sure the two of ya’ll will get along just fine.” Father reassures me, quick to somewhat hypocritically take the role of advisor despite his comments before.

“Right. Well, unfortunately, that remains to be seen.” I turn to reenter the house, but his voice cuts me off before I manage to open the back door.

“Rari,” He says, wiggling an eyebrow scornfully and pointing at my forehead. “You still got the war face on.”

I become conscious of how deeply my lips are pulling down into a scowl. It leaves me feeling rather foolish. As a professional and an adult, I should know better.

“My apologies Father.” Smile for Mommy, don’t let her see how scared you are – You have to be strong now. Smile for your sister Rarity, don’t let her think there’s anything wrong. Smile, Smile, Smile. I take my hoof and swipe it over my face in a motion we’ve practiced a thousand times before – a radiant smile appears beneath as the hoof passes. Much of it is practiced skill, but I suppose in some respects the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.

“Better?”

“Perfect.”

***

Click… click… click…

Modern theatre loves to dramatize the death throes. They highlight the rushed last moment exchanges that cut off right at the wrong time, the gurgle, the pain that comes from looking into newly vacant eyes. What they don’t capture – or perhaps, what they can’t capture – is the real agony;

The waiting.

Twilight won’t let me go back in for another two hours. I think I may have yelled at her again, but that might have been purely in my head or I’m remembering what happened earlier. I can’t leave and walk around, because if I do I may miss something important.

Thus, I am tied here with an invisible tether, listening for the odd moment the ticking clock and beeping monitor sync up with each other. Such a syncing occurs roughly every twenty-six seconds, though that number seems to be growing incrementally smaller with every passing quarter hour. My friends come in to talk to me every once in a while, trying to break up the monotony, but really that just makes the ticking more infuriating when they’re gone and the haunted quiet returns so much more loudly. I’m not entirely sure what I say to them, but judging from their expressions it doesn’t make much sense. The sense of detachment I’m feeling is starting to scare me — that is, when I feel enough to remember I should be scared. I don’t know if it’s from extended exposure to the sieve spell or just the extended sleep deprivation. I heard somepony whisper “week,” but that can’t be right unless I misplaced time somewhere — there ought to be a lost and found box for time; though I’d imagine it would fail due to nonexistent supply and overwhelming demand.

A yellow Pegasus peeks around the corner timidly. Somehow, I manage to break through my haze and nod to her. She walks towards me slowly, her path taking her across the checkered squares of the floor and avoiding any cracks. The details don’t come into focus as much as they just pop in. She’s looking distraught and wearing a dress. The dress sticks out to me more than anything else because it is utterly hideous. What happened to Fluttershy’s impeccable taste, her almost savant-esque understanding of modern style? She is speaking, but her words are drowned out by shrieking of common decency at the state of her appearance. Stitching is horrendous, fitting is subpar, its garish pink and white coloring and composition the screaming afterbirth of an ineffably uninspired progenitor.

Her actual words continue to escape me, but a raise of pitch ending the most recent string of inaudible syllables indicate that she’s asked me a question.

I nod, hoping an affirmation is what she’s looking for. The hooves that wrap around and nearly strangle me seem to say otherwise. Combination of shaking, squeaking, and shivering further suggest that she is either having a breakdown, actively trying to kill me, or some combination thereof. Perhaps she caught a glimpse of herself. As the air is being squeezed out of my lungs I take a peek at the tag, I simply had to.

Oh.

The full frontal assault makes a lot more sense now. The dress was one of mine; from my classics line, back when I actually designed: created with some degree of artistic integrity rather than pandering to the public taste. Its colors and overall look are familiar now that I think about it, but the garment itself had devolved into some sort of ill-fitting eldritch abomination.

It’s terrifying how relative beauty is to state-of-mind.

Fluttershy is gone. Twilight is back, and I can tell from her posture and tone she is lecturing me.

I almost look forward to the lectures. They’re a prelude to our dreams.

***

BOOM

The blast bathes a dark sky in crimson hues, its reverberations rattling the windows. As startling as it is, it’s rather nice to see an explosion of color happening outside my head, as opposed to behind my eyes where they typically serve as a preamble to a worsening migraine.

BOOM-OOM

Two more thunderclaps are accompanied by a turquoise and orange tinted downpour, starbursts of playful ribbons streaming down from a singular fulcrum like tiny comets. We have a parade and celebration in Canterlot, but the nightly show is always planned and executed by unicorns from the various arcane academies – always limited with an emphasis on safety over style.

BOOM-OOM-OOM-OOM

These fireworks aren’t the work of undergrads collecting checkmarks for all the boxes of their community service grading rubric. I know the work of an artist when I see it. The way the multicolored eruptions drift into each other and melt into the universal symbol of love would be telling if it wasn’t a signature move I’d already seen a half-dozen times. Tonight, Ponyville’s sky is the canvas on which Celestia’s student wields the brush, the flaring, fiery flowers formed in flowing strokes as they do every year on the evening of the Hearts and Hooves day. It’s a sure sign the Scarlet festival is underway.

It’s also the night before your birthday.

The familiarity of knowing “where” grants me little peace however, as I realize the feeling of déjà vu from my other trips is no longer present — and for good reason: I can’t remember the last time I was in Ponyville during the Scarlet Festival. Hearts and Hooves is for fashion what Black Friday is for retail, every mare in Equestria is looking for the perfect outfit, and every designer worth her salt will be glued to a sowing machine starting the week prior. I’m in the apartment I picked out for you, the white rosary patterned engravings above the veranda are a dead giveaway - But I know for a fact that this has never happened. We’ve never been together, on this night, in this place. If this scene isn’t from my memory, I’m in entirely uncharted territory and a little scared.

A gift box by the door gives me a slightly narrower time frame, golden ribbon upon soft white paper. I remember wrapping it and rewrapping it before fretting over whether something so precious could be sent in the mail. But I hadn’t sent it. It was something you deserved but something I couldn’t possibly give you without an explanation, pony to pony. I know for a fact that I backed out, sent you a dress instead. So what is this, if it’s not my memory? My mind races as I stalk through the apartment, occasional BOOM-ingof the fireworks casting eerie silhouettes and jumpstarting my heart. I always invite you to come up and visit this time of year – you did once, and once was enough as you’ve always found an excuse since then. I can’t blame you as we didn’t have time to do much between the dozens of orders I was working through.

And what healthy, red-blooded mare in her right mind would want to spend Hearts and Hooves working with fabric, anyway?

The kitchen light is on. There’s a soft clinking, the sound of metal pinging against ceramic.

“Are you going to come in or skulk about like a spy pony?” The voice is unmistakable, if not for tone, for the unseemly lump it summons to my throat.

Taking a breath, I round the corner. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but what I do see is utterly confusing. You’re wearing that dark blue dress I made you, the birthday dress I always send early so you get it in time for the festival. I put in the order for that cake you’re picking at on the table, though I was so crunched for time this particular year I went with one of the premade designs instead of creating one like I usually do. The sixteen accompanying candles have long since been extinguished and discarded, but they’re unnecessary – you look so different from the more familiar little filly who’d sneak a taste of the batter before the cake was even in the oven, so grown up. Why didn’t I make more time.

“There’s a bunch of leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry.” Your voice is friendly, inviting. I’m about to comment that food is the last thing on my mind when I realize that I can’t remember the last time I had something to eat. There’s a mix of delectable aromas in the air that send my imagination running wild as my stomach growls, snapping ravenously at its heels. I swing open the fridge and my jaw drops as the contents are prove even better than they smelled: tapenade, ratatouille, crepes, roquefort with the adorable little crackers, fondue, mousse –

“Mind grabbing me some normal food?” The tragically uncultured filly glares at me. “I’ve had nothing but sugar all night.” I hold my new Prench compatriots closer as I search, lest they take offense and slip away. As if on command, a quick look in the cupboard results in two pre-wrapped peanut butter sandwiches and a bag of chips. I sardonically flourish them over as I sit across from you, a magician unenthusiastically pulling a bit-store bunny out of a top of the line hat.

Sitting down at the table across from you, I reach for a fork. The first bite banishes all thoughts from my mind as the warm and tingly feeling overwhelms my taste buds with carnal bliss. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so hungry. The ratatouille is the first to go in an inverse tornado of noodles and spattering sauce. The roquefort goes next, disemboweled with its own crackers, the crepes are crushed, the fondue is exsanguinated—

That smile. You sit across from me with a goofy look on her your face, crumbling sandwich forgotten as you clamp a hoof firmly over your mouth. I can’t see the smile itself, but the eyes are the windows to the soul and your widows are squinting ever so slightly, pulling up at the sides as your body shakes from unsung mirth. It’s not a smirk, or a sneer – It’s an honest smile, one I haven’t seen for years. I want everything to stop. I want to freeze this moment and keep it forever, locked away in a singular repeating loop.

“Tee-Hee, SNKT, snort,” your hoof slips upward to cover your eyes, leaving the smile bare for all to see.Laughter explodes in a foalish medley of giggling cackles as you fall back, clutching at your sides. “That was amazing.” Sensing the mess, I raise a napkin to my lips and try to feign a glare.

“That’s just about enough out of you young lady.”

“Sorry. I simply had no idea my big sister was such an ill-mannered commoner—“

“You DARE!” for a single moment in time all troubles are forgotten. I leap around the table, trying to grab you in a quick surge of telekinesis which is countered far more quickly and easily than I expect, you stay just out of reach, lingering mid evasive pirouette just long enough to stick out your tongue out and waggle your tail in a mock contempt which only inflames my wounded pride. A tackle and some well-orchestrated tickling are all it takes to extract an admission of guilt.

“Alright, alright, you win!”

“As well I should, little ruffian.”

Laying side by side we catch our collective breath, staring at the ceiling. I know all too well that this levity is purely temporary, that there are questions I have to ask, but I’m too caught in the moment. Fake or real, this feels like a missed opportunity given second life, and I don’t want to waste that asking the hard things.

I want to ask how you’ve been doing in school.

I want to ask how singing is going.

I want to ask if there’s a stallion you like.

Speaking of Stallions… “What kind of filly spends Hearts and Hooves alone eating cake?” I prop myself up on a hoof to look at you with a grin “I know you said in the letter you were planning on spending it with friends, but I figured that was code for ‘I’m spending it with the special somepony I don’t want any nosy sister to know about yet.’” You look strangely aloof at the suggestion, devoid of any of the blushing or sputtering that would prove me right.

“Nah, just decided to stay in I guess. My friends all kind of have dates, though they’re a little weird.” You give a little shiver, stretching out on the carpet. “Pound Cake’s been begging to take Apple Bloom out for ages and she finally gave in — if only to humor him. And Scoots is out with Rainbow, though they’re both too quick to claim their outing is purely platonic.” You snicker, hugging yourself ever so slightly.

“The mares doth protest too much.” I muse wryly. “But even so, why stay in? The girls and I always went stag. There are plenty of single ponies out there dancing the night away, stallions and mares. Were you just not feeling up to it tonight?”

To say the moment of silence is strained would be an understatement. You turn away, voice little more than a whisper. “I… kind of… always stay in.”

“WHAAAAAAT?”

“Oh come on, don’t make it a big thing.”

“It-it-it-it-it is a big thing! The romance, the glamour, the near endless possibilities – why I’d be out every night of the festival if it wasn’t for work.” I prop myself up further, trying catch a glimpse of your face. It’s impossible to make out more than a side profile in the gloom, but the spectacle outside illuminates your features for a split-second, revealing a redness that wasn’t there previously.

“I never…” the mumble trails off into something I can’t make out.

“A little louder dear?”

“I never learned to dance okay!” You snap and turn towards me, revealing a face so red it almost glows in the dark. “Somepony was going to teach me, but somepony always ended up busy or got distracted, and I spent so long waiting for somepony that by the time I figured out she was never going to teach me everypony already knew how and it was too embarrassing to admit I didn’t even know how to waltz. It’s like a bucking musical out there.” You stomp away to the window, taking my ability to formulate cohesive sentences with you. Guilt seeps into me from every pore. I know I’ve made mistakes, know I’ve not been there for you nearly as much as I should, but seeing such a vivid example hits incredibly hard.

Guilt suddenly solidifies into determination, stirring a fire I’ve never known was there.

“What time is it?” The voice is so commanding I barely recognize it as my own – neither do you, judging by how you start and stare, as if seeing me for the first time.

“u-um… it’s a quarter to nine I think, why?”

Excellent; if that’s the case, we’ve only missed the pre-show and the night is still young. I walk to the mirror to check myself. Though I could have sworn I was wearing nothing a moment before, the mirror reveals something quite different: I’m wearing a light green dress, simple yet elegant – it compliments your eyes perfectly. I put a hoof to my ear playfully, “Do you hear that darling?”

“Er, the fireworks?”

“No, between the fireworks. The sound of steps shuffling against stone. The faint wailing of an overly sentimental orchestra. The vibrations of a thousand sets of eight hooves moving as two to the beat of three-four – that, dear sister, is the call of the waltz.” It’s hard not to grin at the growing look of horror on your face. “And tonight, we shall answer her together.”

“But-I-can’t-dance-just-ate-maybe-next-year-“ You sputter, too off-balance to counter the sudden surge of telekinesis that pulls you towards me.

I drape a foreleg over your back reassuringly, as the phonograph I didn’t even know was there begins to play a longtime favorite. It’s too convenient for coincidence, but I’m beyond the point of caring about anything but you.

“Follow me. Watch my hooves, we’ll start slow.” You’re obviously terrified, but that just makes me all the more determined to be a good teacher. The apartment begins to spin around us as we move faster and faster, left hoof, right hoof, back left, back right, simple repetition becomes more complex as every time you perfect a pattern I add another twist. Your ability to adapt astounds me. I’m teaching you silently, save the occasional affirmation when you mutter “sorry” after bumping hoofs, but you’re so bright, so quick to learn. The tempo swells and ebbs to accompany us – eventually you’re no longer looking down, you’re predicting my movements solely through my eyes. I keep getting lost in yours, deep green, green as the ocean. I can’t help but wonder if you know. If you know what’s actually happened and you’re just humoring me. Sadness pulls me out of my fugue with the thought what we’re doing will likely never happen in reality. No, no, I can’t think about that. I can make this special.

Yes I’m fixating, obsessing over a single moment that likely means nothing in the grand scheme of things but frankly I can’t concern myself with that – if this moment is a gift, who am I to ask what it is, what it means?

The apartment melts away to somewhere else, much more open and populated. The middle of town is filled to the brim with ponies of all types, colors, and sizes; They move together, faces hidden in silhouettes cast by the moon as they dance around the orchestra’s place in the center of the square. Fear and a touch of queasiness plays across your face. You look back and forth between the couples, terrified that somepony you know might see should you make a fool of yourself. I take your chin in my forehoof, gently pulling your gaze to mine. We begin to move again. It takes much less time for you to trust yourself. I release all but your hoof for a spin, and as your face comes back into view I feel my heart give way as I see joy in your eyes, something absent since the night we lost mom—

Pain. Everything shimmers.

I look away, trying to regain control. Ponyville square is like a snow globe: self-contained within an invisible sphere, filled with a plethora of cheerful moving parts but void beyond the visible expanse of the rooftops, an unwanted reminder that none of this is real. No. It’s as real as I want it to be, so I loosen my grip on what is and is not and choose to focus solely on you. The shooting star flits across the sky right on cue, and I silently wish for this moment to last forever.

Though I suspect it lasted a good three or four times longer than the actual song, the orchestra eventually stops playing. We’re both flushed and out of breath, collapsing at the nearest patio table. I flag down the cotton candy mare and purchase two bags: pink for both of us, naturally - blue is for stallions. High on the moment, you have yet to stop smiling and can barely sit still, hind legs swinging restlessly as you nibble on your snack.

“So?” I ask, making no effort to keep the smugness out of my voice

“It’s… a lot more fun than I expected,” you admit begrudgingly between shallow breaths. “I’m a kinda thirsty though.”

I feel more than a little dumb for the lack of forethought and go hunting for a water vendor. Ponyville’s tourist prices are nothing to scoff at. It costs nearly a horn and a hoof to pay for the only canteens I can find, courtesy of a sour looking pegasus with a greasy coat, obviously single and not loving it. Not that I could blame her. Ponies aren’t nearly as big on PDA as gryphons, but Scarlet Night has always been an exception to that rule; passions run high, and while the official dancing tends to be fairly chaste the truly awkward displays take place in the lulls between music, where even the most timid and well-behaved couple is looking for an isolated spot to squeeze in a quick nuzzle. I finally begin making my way back towards the courtyard.

You’re fidgeting awkwardly, intently studying the ridges of our table in an attempt to avoid staring at the two ponies tongue-locked in the booth across from you. Well, “tongue-locked” is a kind way of putting it, far kinder than they deserve. They look like they’ve gone three rounds in more ways than one and all they’re lacking is a referee to count them off when somepony is inevitably caught in a sleeper hold. And what is he doing with his hoof? Why don’t you just club her over the head and drag her off to your cave already you damned neanderquine?

“And that, Sweetie Belle, is why it is not proper for a lady to consume copious amounts of alcohol in public.” Sitting in a place that intentionally blocks your view earns me a dubious smile. The cotton candy has barely been touched as you take the canteen from my grip.

“Right. If I’m going to consume copious amounts of alcohol, I’ll be sure to do it alone. Because being drunk alone is a healthy alternative to social drinking?” You smirk knowingly.

The words are too pointed for coincidence, but they can’t possibly be aimed at me – I’ve never let you see me drink, never wanted you to see that part of myself. It effectively kills the conversation and I’m left studying the contents of my canteen while your eyes drift back to the couple behind me. There’s so much about this I can only guess at. I have no way of knowing anything really – what if this is just my dream? Some extenuated fantasy drawn out to cope with the fact I’ll never be able to make peace with you.

“Rarity?” You ask, still sneaking glances at the other side of the courtyard.

“Yes dear?”

“What does a kiss feel like?”

It’s all I can do to keep the sip of water inside my mouth. It’s not like you asked where babies come from, but for some reason it’s just as off-putting. “Um— from my experience they’re usually two things: moist and terribly overrated.”

“That’s it?”

Well, maybe I’m over-generalizing as my experiences in romance have a tendency to be anticlimactic — ” I run a hoof through my mane clumsily. “You’ve really never had a special somepony Sweetie?”

“No. Well kinda.” You shrug. “Was always too focused on choir for anything serious before highschool. I think Pip and I were technically dating for about a week freshman year. Didn’t go anywhere. His idea of going out was running away every time he saw me.”

“Ah.”

“Yep.”

It’s a weird topic, and some part of me wants to just let it drop. Perhaps I should.

Then again, maybe I’ve let too many things go already.

“So… Why the sudden curiosity?” But it’s not me you watch with glazed eyes. I turn to look at the twin combatants in the booth, who have apparently ended their match in a tie. The Stallion drops a few bits on the receipt – I doubt he tipped well – and stands to accompany his waiting mare. She pecks him on the cheek affectionately. Their tails interlock as they trot out together.

“Just wondering…” Your voice has an eerie, otherworldly sound to it. “… since I’ll probably never get the chance-“

The ambient noise cuts out as the world grinds to a halt. You jolt, freezing in horror like actress realizing she’s made a grievous error and is running off script. Vision blurs, and the telltale tug on my invisible shackles informs me the luck I’ve been pressing has just run out.

Strangely, I am still in control. If I let go, there’s very little room for doubt – I would be pulled back in an instant, yet that instant is mine to define. If I concentrate, I can stretch out that instant into eternity. The subconscious is not defined by reality’s rules. It’s the first time I’ve been so vividly conscious of it, but this is my construct, my fabric.

And as any tailor will tell you, fabric can be manipulated.

It’s important that I focus now. The world outside the courtyard is extraneous detail. All the other ponies, the festival, the orchestra, they’re all just distracting baubles that take away from the piece as a whole. Cutting them loose brings everything important into the center, sharpening the finer details. Whereas our existence was but a blip on the fringes of a much bigger event, the panoramic view is discarded, taking with it everything remotely unnecessary. Less is more.

“It’s beautiful, but innately tragic.”

“What is?” You ask, still shaken by the sudden change.

“A kiss.” My horn glows, creating a blue flock of fireflies in the nothingness. “In life we form connections.” Thin, loose lines extend from firefly to firefly forming a glowing web, some links remaining while others dissolve. “Close friendship is inherently temporary. Ponies get married, grow up, change, move on. A lucky few will stay close forever, but those sorts of friends are incredibly rare.” The fireflies disappear one by one until only two remain, hovering close together. “A kiss is a symbol, a microcosm of a much bigger idea. To kiss is to dare; to give a part of yourself freely in hopes that part will be returned in equal measure, eventually resulting in a bond much stronger and more permanent than any friendship. Even though it opens you up to being hurt, to kiss is to hope, and in that sense it’s beautiful.”

“Then what makes it innately tragic?” You ask quietly.

Good one, Rarity. Words escape me.

The two fireflies have bonded together so closely they’re almost impossible to differentiate. We watch them flutter together happily as I silently will them to fly away, intently wishing for a stray gust of wind.

Eventually the smaller one blinks, highlighting the differentiation between the two. Seconds later it begins to flicker – the flickering grows more and more prevalent until its light finally goes out.

It simply disappears.

The remaining firefly hovers, its light steady yet clearly dimmer than it once was. It doesn’t seem angry, doesn’t buzz around in a panic. If anything it looks lost.

So terribly lost.

“Why would anypony do that!” You snap, surprisingly angry “Why would anypony invest so much of themselves into a relationship, when even the best possible result ends so bucking sadly?”

Colors begin to run together. There’s exponentially more friction to the slightest movement, as if I’m submerged in some viscous liquid and the lump in my throat has grown preposterously large. I’m running out of time again, only now I don’t think I can delay it. There’s so much pressure. If the invisible cord pulls much harder I think it may break me in half.

No.

The fading world around us is brutally forced back into focus. I’m only partly conscious of the magic running rampant through my horn.. Everything reforms, piece by piece.

“Because it’s not about the ending. It’s about the journey”

“What?”

“Sweet Bee, if we went on a vacation to some tropical paradise, would you spend the whole trip moping about the fact that we’d eventually have to go home?”

“I… I guess not.”

“You’d splash around in the water, explore, go on adventures. Love is like that. The end is nothing more than a stopping point. It’s about making the best of the time we’re given.”

The fireworks I dismissed earlier resume anew within the confines of my skull. Each explosion of light sets countless neurons aflame, scorching me. My hooves grip the table, the irony of holding onto something I know to be immaterial not lost on me as I cling for dear life.

“You okay?” The bench shifts ever so slightly, the smell of apricots mingled with the faintest whiff of nutella tells me you’ve moved over to my side. The nuzzle against my neck is all I need to endure just a little longer, warmth of your breath chasing the terror away.

“Certainly. Did that answer the question?”

“Yeah. I guess I understand – what it means.” Sweetie muses quietly. “ I still wish I knew how it felt.”

The idea forming is either genius or lunacy. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” Your perplexed expression is so innocent I can feel myself flushing.

“Humor me. Picture somepony you really like.”

“’Kay”

“Also it just… um, it can’t be me.”

“Why?”

“It’d be uncouth – look just picture somepony other than me!”

“Okay, okay, picturing somepony other than you.” Aside from a pouty lower lip you seem surprisingly accommodating. There’s a moment of hesitation on my part, but the almost expectant way your head is tilted slightly upwards towards mine pushes me forward me.

I lean down ever so gently and pull your lips to mine. It is pure, devoid of the baser urges that often accompany such an act. I love you and I want you to know, need you to know and understand in a way I could never coherently put into words. Words are so limited, so damnably finite when it comes to describing that which is truly emotionally profound. I could never explain in simple Equestrian how terribly I miss you, how impossible it is for me to picture a life without you, how every fiber of my being wants nothing more than for this kiss to break your spell, despite knowing exactly how naïve that is and how much it will crush me when it doesn’t.

You’ll be exactly where I left you, no matter what I do.

A single thought is poison that seeps from my lips into yours. It burns like the fire that burns like nothing else. It burns like regret. The textures shift. I pull back

“Rari… that was… what’s wrong?” You trail off, sensing my alarm.

It’s all I can do not to scream. A single thought begins the downward cascade in which dream decays into nightmare. Your lips grow increasingly pale, flaky, and thin. Your already small body begins to shrivel and pale. Dark, deeply bruised circles form around your eyes. The healthy white color of your horn turns to a dull slate. Almost all of your ribcage is visible now through an increasingly taut undercoat.

“Rari…?” Your voice is muffled and weak, increasingly difficult to make out thanks to the tube that’s forcing air into your trachea. My comprehension explodes in a utterly excruciating wave of searing pain and guilt. The time lapse transformation screams a single ineffable question.

Where were you?

“Why… didn’t you tell me?“ I choke out. It sounds less like a question and more like an empty defense. I can’t hold it off any longer. The change shattered whatever psychological control I had and the darkness rushes in, stifling me once more.

***

I’m moving so fast the water seems to boil across my skin from speed alone. This is no undercurrent. This is a far angrier force of nature, something primal that’s taken a personal dislike to my very existence and is dragging me along by the tail. Voices above me are yelling, panicked. Maybe they’re being pulled along too, but I get the feeling that isn’t the case. Somepony is crying, somepony is having a nervous breakdown, and somepony is yelling at the top of their lungs. It’s not that I don’t want yell, panic, and cry. I doubt they’d be so noisy if they were suspended in water, even if it isn’t actually water. What is it? I guess I could take a peek

Scenes move across my vision at a breakneck pace. My memories are literally flashing in front of my eyes, flashing because one is over in a millisecond before moving on to the next. I wish reworking the magazine layout had gone this quickly the first time. Never seen a business meeting move that fast— are things getting slower? I’m moving towards something again and it’s not the surface-

***

The park is circular, alternating curves of shrubbery, flowers, and trees. It’s almost too symmetrical, most likely the work of a mathematical mind lacking in imagination. Sweat drips down my forehead onto the floor of the central gazebo, a small place of shelter that now provides very little comfort. My only comfort, in fact, comes from watching the message of the paper I hold deform.

Removing ink from paper is an uncommon skill as it requires a significant amount of precision and provides little payoff. Considering the difficulty of what many consider to be a parlor trick, most unicorns don’t bother with it. In my early years of sketching and design, it paid for itself in the amount of canvas I saved that would have otherwise been scrapped — Once I stopped making mistakes, it became something of a luxury. I’ve never tried it on text before now, but it’s almost too easy.

The punctuation is the first to go. Every period, comma, and question mark is lifted from the page and discarded into a small blot at the bottom of the page. As it becomes progressively less legible my anxiety diminishes, moving down from my throat to somewhere towards the base of my spine. I begin to remove the vowels, letter by letter, until all that’s left is an incoherent collection of oddly spaced syllables and consonants. The dot at the bottom of the page grows larger, the size of a small bit. Methodically destroying the message is therapeutic, albeit futile.

They say the best lies are those closest to the truth. So close, that with a little repetition it should be hard to differentiate the two. I’d like to think that at one point I was earnest, that the words coming out of my mouth almost daily weren’t practiced responses given to encourage hope for a future that was unlikely at best. Whatever my intentions were, the test results proved one irrefutable fact amongst a host of others.

They proved me a liar. A wretched, wretched liar.

The nurse watches me quietly, undoubtedly unnerved by the display. I meet her eyes, twisting my mouth into a smile one side at a time before levitating the paper back to her and turning on a hoof to exit the enclosure.

Mother is near the pond, tossing in food pellets from her wheelchair as she always does. I approach her slowly from behind, plastic smile never leaving my face. It’s always the highlight of her day, and I won’t forgive myself if I ruin that. Keep it together, Rarity. She looks almost radiant, direct light on her pale coat letting off a slight glare.

A half dozen Koi wriggle back and forth at the surface in a flurry of bubbles and greedy mouths, fighting for a better spot, an eager intermingling of orange, white, and black.

“They certainly look pleased to see you.” Every word out of my mouth feels disingenuous.

“I suppose so!” Mother laughs merrily, smile lines around her eyes crinkling ever so slightly. “They wouldn’t come near me all spring. Maybe it’s the mane.” She reaches back, ruffling the small length with a scowl. “Ratty as it is.”

“Hardly. Short manes are actually in these days.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Am not, and I detest the very implication.”

“You’re sweet.” She’s losing herself in her own diminished reflection again, a sense of loss permeating her words.

Distract. Refocus attention. Flatter.

“Mooother...” Drawing it out and leaning forward, I place both hoofs on the arms of her wheelchair, invading her personal space to grab her attention. “It’s not a matter of being sweet. Look at this bone structure. Look at these high cheekbones.” I tap them both gently. “With the short mane, you look younger and more fit than you have in years.”

Liar.

“Rarity... stop.”

Go ahead, lay it on thick.

“I’m serious. Carousel boutique has a new line coming out meant to appeal to the more mature and sophisticated mare. When this is all over, it would mean the world to me if you’d model for it.” A part of me dies a little, but the smile she rewards me with is almost worth it.

“Such a silver tongued daughter. No wonder you’ve done so well for yourself running a business. Is everything going alright at the boutique by the way?”

“Can’t complain, it practically runs itself these days.”

Because I sold it.

“Glad to hear it. How’s your sister? She hardly ever comes to see me anymore.”

“At Applebloom’s” I reply instinctively, “And you know how it is, she’s just getting to be that age where she spends most of her time with her friends.”

Actually, you’ve run away again. This happens a few times a month now. We’ll make plans to see mom together and you’ll just disappear. Pinkie’s already looking, and after visiting hours I’ll go turn ponyville upside down if she hasn’t found you yet. Usually I can predict where you’ve gone, but last time I found you at the trainstation. You said you were just looking for a place to sit. I’m not sure whether or not I believe that.

“Maybe. It can’t be easy having an invalid for a mother.”

“It’s a good thing she doesn’t have an invalid for a mother then, isn’t it.”

Mother chuckles, tossing the rest of the food pellets into the pond and wiping her hooves clean. “Rarity,” Always my full name. “I saw you talking with the nurse,” The wheelchair turns slightly, her gaze focused on me for the first time. “How is it?”

I don’t want to lie anymore. I want to break down and cry, fall to pieces, bury my head in her lap.

Stop it. Get it together. Misdirect.

“Right, well there’s good news; They’ve approved moving you to a much nicer facility.”

“What sort of facility?” She asks cautiously.

“This new place is meant to be much smaller and geared towards ponies with similar conditions. It’s in the country, near the eastern coast. Right on the ocean in fact. It’s really rather beautiful, or so I’ve been told.”

“Rarity. Just tell me it didn’t take.” Her disarming smile is gone in an instant, a harsh and withered bitterness in its stead. “Stop pussyfooting around and just tell me it didn’t take, and I’m still bucking dying. They wouldn’t be transferring me if it did.” We’ve obviously reached the latter stage of her daily manic depressive.

“Mother. Stop it. Stop it right now.” I scold her with a passion I don’t feel. “They’re transferring you because it will better suit your needs. Hospitals have a lot of patients. You’ve seen a doctor what, once, twice this month? Moving you to a smaller place will let the doctors focus on you. And there was incremental progress made... it just...”

Wasn’t nearly enough

“...Isn’t quite right for you here.”

“And how are we supposed to pay for it?” Mother demands through teary eyes. “How much longer can we? I know you try to coddle me Rarity but I’m a grown mare. Bits don’t grow on trees, and I’m nothing but a burden.” She finally looks away, voice barely more than a whisper. “How much longer until you just leave me too-”

“That will NEVER happen,” I hiss. Unlike practically everything else I’ve said, my words now are the pure and unfiltered truth. “He left because he was scum. Scum that didn’t deserve you. You are my Mother. You are not a burden and will never be one. Bits don’t matter. They never have. But nothing matters if you lose hope. I need you to fight this. For Sweetie. For me. I need you not to give up. Please.”

Please don’t give up.

My head is in her lap. She’s humming; it’s a gentle, familiar tune that transports me back to a fillyhood of days long past. I maintain composure by the skin of my teeth.

“So ready to be an adult, yet still such a foal at heart.” She says wryly, exhaustion in her voice. “Sorry dear... I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

***

The state of discombobulated nausea washes over me like an old blanket. It may not be comfortable but it’s warm, and better than I feel 90% of the time anyway. A red light gleans ever subtly from the tip of my horn as I raise a hoof to cue the waitress. It took a year but we’ve finally established a routine. She keeps the mimosas flowing without making a snide comment about excess volume or time of day, I keep tipping like a saint. Really though, alcohol’s just a lubricating agent to make the place itself easier to swallow. Cornucopia is a prime example of what goes for upper-class nightlife here in Canterlot – meaning it’s very good at disguising its target demographic. It may be located in an extremely high-bit section of town, but you couldn’t guess that from the interior. The inside is a deafening epilepsy machine, fueled by driving bass drums and poser DJ’s, the sort that scoff at dubstep for being too mainstream — unless the wub-wub happens to be theirs.

The combination of flashing lights and loud, migraine dispensing atmosphere doesn’t feel or look upper echelon because it’s not intended to. That’s what the fine mares and stallions of the Canterlot Elite want: the mere simulation of slumming it — a way to feel edgy and progressive without the inconvenience of setting hoof in the same establishment as an actual plebeian. The waitress brings over two drinks, an unfortunate reminder that I’m not, in fact, alone.

“You can’t be serious” The pink unicorn to my left croons. “I mean the CL is where it’s at. Ponies would kill to be in the circles we run in. Who would leave?”

“Ponies lacking the prerequisite trust fund?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Kerfluffle and I have very little in common. She has the sort of fake posh accent that makes you want to punch her in the throat every time she says “Daddy.” Her vernacular is aural homicide. She is rude, self-centered, conceited, and entirely insulated from the real world. Yet I still find her more tolerable than majority of the populace. Her parents cut her off after she opened her own business, fearing access to their near unlimited revenue stream might ‘spoil’ her. They might have been about eighteen years too late, but she had to claw her way up the Canterlot fashion scene hoof by hoof, which is more than I can say for most of the upper class I once so thoughtlessly admired. Our commonalities also include sweet tooths, slight insomnia and a directly resulting appreciation for the nightlife.

Well, she’s here for the night life. I’m just here for the mimosas. I don’t usually open up to her, but tonight I’m already buzzed and though it’s a close, I’d rather confide in her than an empty glass.

“Hoity gave me a fantastic quote for the store and line. A fantastic quote. I could finally go home.”

She drops her strawberry daiquiri with a clink. “You’re actually serious. Ray-ray you’ve—“

“Don’t call me that…”

“Fine. Rarity. Somepony who’s been in the business as long as you can’t possibly be so naïve. Ponies who cash in early always live to regret it. Remember Candidly Clandestine? Candid said the brand was unmarketable, sold out to Glimmering Fields for a hundred grand— “

“—And watched the companies worth skyrocket into millions over the course of the next two years. Yes, I’m well aware of that possibility. It just doesn’t matter.”

“How… can that many bits, not matter.” She leans in for dramatic effect, in case the slack jawed expression and incredulous eyebrow weren’t clear enough.

“I’d have enough. That’s all I care about.” I shrug.

Whatever I was expecting, her laugh catches me off guard. “The melodramatic ‘I’m only here to as long as I have to be’ was actually a thing?”

As you might surmise, I have been intoxicated enough to confide Kerfluffle a few times prior to this. I’m beginning to reconsider the wisdom of it. “Shut up.”

“Oh that’s just adorable.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Fine, fine.” Kerfluffle wipes her eyes, seemingly oblivious to the flock of daggers I’m glaring in her direction. “So you don’t care about the gold. What about your line? Your life’s work, blood sweat and tears poured into a label you’re just going to sell?”

“It’s a sham.” Can't believe I'm admitting it out loud, but there it is.

“Come again?”

“My line is a sham,” I chuckle. “Bucking pantsuits.”

“Right. As fun as this is I think you’ve had enough.” Her attempt to accost my drink is disarmed with a simple application of telekinetic force at the base of her horn, cancelling it almost comically.

“Yet I can still outcast you. Magic off the mimosa darling.” The remainder of the drink is downed in a single protective gulp and even the healthy portion orange juice and sugar can’t hide the burn that scratches at my throat on its way down. My signal to the waiter is almost subconscious. “Really Fluffle, you know what I wanted to do when I came to Canterlot? I wanted to design dresses – I know, the very hubris of such a thing!”

“Why didn’t you?” she asks quietly, though she must already know the answer. At the very least she’s stopped laughing.

“Because Canterlot mares didn’t want dresses. Why would they? Dresses are a celebration of the feminine form, a natural extension of a mare’s beauty. Classic chic? So five years ago.” I signal the waitress again, light of my horn significantly less subtle this time. Either she’s getting slower as the night drags on or I am. “I tried. Believe me I tried, but there just wasn’t a market for it – save the ballroom season, and even then the nobles don’t plan ahead. They want something fast and easy – How could they not, that’s all they know – and I can’t do a several dozen custom dresses overnight. And when it’s not ballroom season, all mares care about is these days is being taken seriously in the workplace; They wanted pantsuits, so I gave them pantsuits. Carousel Expanded became Carousel Professional. Doing what I love wasn’t marketable, so I did something else.” The last sip of saccharine nectar swirls about at the bottom of the glass thoughtlessly, circling an invisible drain. I shrug with a small smile “I guess you could say Rarity Belle sold out a long time ago.”

The lull in the conversation is tragically temporary. “Okay. So let’s say in a sudden fit of insanity you do sell off your line to Hoity. The quote can’t be that good, or even you would be at least a little happy about it.”

I groan. If the flashing lights weren’t already making me queasy Kerfluffle’s endless interrogation isn’t helping anything. “It’s enough. Enough to buy a small place and put a filly through college. Not a top tier school but someplace decent… respectable.”

“And then what?”

“And then we all live happily ever after, the end.” I say flatly. It would be great if the talking could stop. And the spinning. It would be nice if the room stopped spinning. Guess I have had a few.

Unfortunately Kerfluffle doesn’t do subtle cues. “Sure. So Sweet Tea’s big dream is to become the college student at an above average college?”

“It’s Sweetie, and no, that’s not her dream. She wants to sing – I just want her to have something to fall back on.”

“What, is she not talented?”

“She is, but it’s not like Equestria cares about talent.”

“Celestia you’re a buzzkill tonight. You have that little faith in her?”

“No, stop twisting my words. I believe in her... I just… know better than to trust Equestria will believe what I believe. Half of our celebrated poets weren’t even critically recognized until after their deaths. That’s what I’ve learned since I moved here: the nature of fame. You’re either a fossil or a fad and can become either in an instant, with very little lee-way in between.”

Kerfluffle blows air between her lips, nickering in exasperation. “Ceeeeeelestia. Waitress, another mimosa for my friend, and a hammer to the back of the head for myself if you please?” Tapping the tip of her glass earns us a dirty look from the bar.

“Stop rushing them darling. They grow the oranges in miniature grove under the counter; peeling, squeezing, and filtering out the pulp is an involved and time consuming process.”

“Really? That—“ Her eyes narrow suddenly, “Har. Har.”

Downing the last sip of my drink hides smirk. Six months ago she would have bought that without a second thought. Our drinks finally arrive though they are placed on the table with all the grace of a Viking swinging a battle-axe. The waitress informs Kerfluffle, without a hint of sarcasm, that while she would have loved to comply she was unable to find the toolbox, thus a triple shot daiquiri will have to do instead. Throbbing dissonance of the music grows more erratic. Either the DJ’s choking to death and using her synthesizers as a desperate cry for help or she’s working her way up to a drop.

“So change it.”

My head hits the table full force, much harder than I originally intended. “For Luna’s sake would you let it go already!”

Bang. The sound of her hoofs hitting the table startle me . “No. I’m not going to let it go. I’ve listened to you blather on about how horrible reality is for the last hour. Now I’m going to tell you a story and you’re going to listen.” Any smart retort I might have made dies immediately in my throat. Fluffle is a pony who rarely focuses on anything longer than a few seconds, or so I thought. The way she’s staring at me now, unblinking, is beginning to make me question that.

Satisfied at the lack of challenge she relaxes slightly, looking away. Still, the newly formed gravitas remains. “My aunt ran off to the Zahara with some drifter a few years after I made it in the business. Auntie was always the black sheep, always irresponsible. Her disappearing wasn’t really the end of the world for us.” The daiquiri disappears at an alarming rate. “Thing was, she left her kids behind. A nine year old colt and two fillies — one fourteen and the other sixteen. Who does that, right? Just up and leaves with no explanation?

Have you ever wanted to just run away from all this? Practiced acting and self-control keeps my face neutral, but her words sting me more than she can possibly know.

“As I’ve told you, my family isn’t exactly big on charity. They cut me off, and I’m immediate family. Should have heard what they were saying about them. ‘Let the system take them in, it’ll toughen them up. We aren’t cleaning up after Trista’s mess – we spoil them and they’ll just end up exactly like her.”

“That’s monstrous.”

“That’s what I said. Granted, this was back when I was still a little sore at them over the whole kicking me out on my own thing, but I wasn’t going to let it stand. ‘Screw you mom and dad, Foals need a maternal figure and if Aunt won’t fulfill that role, I will” She gives me a wry smile.’ “Spite, as it turns out, isn’t the best motivator for parenthood.”

“But they needed you.” I prompt, almost too quickly. “Even if your motives didn’t start out in the proper place, they needed somepony who cared about them.”

“Did they?” She asks knowingly. “I moved in with them for a while, took care of their expenses, the whole shebang. At the best the fillies were indifferent to my presence, at worst they hated me. The colt, little Hawkthorn slept in the same room as me for a while, but after about a year even he started pulling away. I tried everything – classes, self-help books, nothing seemed to make a difference. The bigger effort I made the more they seemed to resent it. Sometimes the girls wouldn’t even come home at night, and when they finally did I couldn’t punish them – it wasn’t my place. I loved them, but there was just this impassable wall I could do nothing about it.”

“What changed it?”

“Their mother came back. Just strut in the door after three years like she’d only been gone for a month. One huge argument later I was at my wits end and told them I was going to go.”

“You abandoned them?” It pops out of my mouth and I instantly regret it. Kerfluffle doesn’t get angry, but the look on her face tells me I’ve wounded her deeply.

“No. I talked to each of them separately. Told them I’d always take care of them and if they needed anything they could drop me a letter and I’d be there in a heartbeat – but I felt like I’d been intruding on their lives, even before Trista came back. And then I left, and that was that.”

“They never wrote you?”

“Actually they did.” A slight smirk resurfaces. “Not for years, but they did. See, ‘Auntie’ came back broke from her little escapade, savings wasted, not a bit to her name. It took them a long time to figure out that she hadn’t been paying for any expenses. Can’t say why I did it really, maybe I was just bored and had the bits to spare. Slowly they started talking to me again. Then a lot. One of the girls explained it in a way that stuck with me not too long ago. ‘The day you lose a parent is the day you realize the world is terrifying and it’s not going to wait around for you to grow up. So you start trying to grow up, and when ponies come in to try and coddle you, it’s frustrating because you don’t want to be protected. The cat’s already out of the bag, and it feels like they’re just trying to hide how cold the world really is.’”

“That’s… incredibly cynical.”

“It’s the truth, and her words. Kids are black and white — abandonment is an unresolvable taint that will color their perspective towards the former.”

“I can’t accept that. You’re saying it can’t be changed. That even trying is pointless.” I shake my head slowly.

“I’m saying that trying to change their perspective is pointless. So don’t change their perspective. Change their world.”

“Now you’re just being absurd.”

Her sidesaddle bag is placed on the table with a thump. An off-white suede clutch is removed hurriedly.

“Hawkthorn” She slaps the picture of a pegasus stallion down in front of me. “Youngest graduate of the Wonderbolt Academy ever, currently captain of the reserve squad.”

“Milly.” A second picture covers the first, this one of a dainty looking earth pony in a tutu. “One of the few earth ponies to be accepted and graduate from Juliarc. The only prima ballerina earth pony, along with being one of the youngest.”

“Lilac.” The third picture is small pegasus pony with a harp in the midst of a huge stage. “Loves music but pegasi aren’t exactly built for it. Wings get in the way, except for when they don’t. Went through half the top musicians in the country trying to find a good fit – turns out, wings can manipulate a harp with a precision magic never could. There’s a year waiting list to book her for an event.”

She leans in, tapping each photo to hammer her point home.

“These chances didn’t just fall into their laps and pay for themselves. I encouraged them to dream — but I spared no effort to see those dreams realized. Instruments were donated, highly specific scholarships were created, hooves were greased, names were dropped, news outlets were paid. It sounds like cheating – maybe it is, but welcome to life: everypony cheats. You and I have to see that, but they don’t. None of my foals would have gone anywhere without exceptional talent - all I did was give them a fair shot. You can make dreams come true, but it’s going to cost bits. Lots and lots of bits. You have to balance being present and being a provider. But here’s the kicker; you know who they visit when they come into town? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not Aunt Trista, their deadbeat mother who can’t even pay her own rent. It’s me. They visit me. We go out to eat, swap stories. Sometimes they crash on the couch. It’s more of a family now than it ever was before. I’ll never tell them everything I’ve done for them — but on some level they know, because they’ve been down in the dirt and seen for themselves how hard the world is, seen it well enough to know that there’s seldom such a thing as a happy coincidence, yet happy coincidences continue to abound.”

“But that... it’s not...” My head is in my hooves. There’s nothing I can say to refute her. If somepony told me a few days ago Kerfluffle would stump me I would’ve laughed. Only… she’s right. I hardly know you anymore. Your letters are increasingly terse and I can’t get over the feeling they’re a chore for you. Things haven’t been the same - maybe they never will be. You haven’t visited me in over a year. Countless invitations are met with countless excuses.

“How old is she? Your sister?”

“Sixteen.” The number feels wrong to think, let alone say. You’re thirteen, you’ve always been thirteen in my head only you’re not and I’m years behind the curve.

“She graduates in two years Rarity. That’s the time you get with her before she leaves you, gone off to a world that doesn’t care about her dreams — a world you’ll no longer have the resources to change.”

I’ll need to increase production, three, four times the current output. I… I can do that. Things have slowed down ever since I hit my target, it’s just a matter of hiring a little extra help and speeding them up again. I’ll also have to expand. Franchise. I’ve fought that for a long time – There’s been plenty of demand for new stores but Carousel’s always been my baby, even if it doesn’t produce what I’d like it to produce. I… I’ll have to let that go. Kerfluffle is partly wrong. Dreams don’t just cost bits, it’s not that simple; they require compromise. Where one dream thrives another falls. I can give you that, I think. It will pain me to no end, but I can give you that.

This is the best possible option.

***

I’m not sure when my perspective started to change. Maybe it was with mom. But I think it started, really started when I opened the business in Canterlot and everything started to go wrong. Kerfluffle’s theory was so appealing because it reinforced what I’d already begun to suspect. In short, I found that true creativity simply wasn’t rewarding in the real world, and with that finding even my definitions began to change.

The value of colors are determined by season. ‘Classic’ and ‘Vintage’ are neither, merely examples of designers satisfying the public ideal exceptionally well at particular points in the past. Style is a word to describe the circular indecisiveness of the equine mind; the reason it constantly changes is to inevitably return to what it once was. Excess turns to minimalism turns to excess - Less is more until less becomes more of the same, and “Originality” and “Finesse” are just metrics for how good you are at hiding your influences.

Music above me scratches at my psyche like nails on a chalkboard. Not just any music, one specific song designed to paralyze me. I’ve taken too long to come out so the shoes have come off and they’re not messing around anymore. Stop. Please stop. I’m not ready to come out yet. Concentrate enough and I can pull myself back down – no, stop the singing, that’s not going to work. It’s cruel, so cruel. You can’t do this to me now. I have to know why she didn’t tell me. I have to know — I can’t not know.

The invisible cord tugging at my spine suddenly feels tangible. I can almost see it, in my mind through my horn I can see the thread that binds me, controls me. In a raging storm of complexity and counter-intuitive issues, it’s a joy to be faced with something this simple again. At first it’s a little difficult to draw power in the nothingness, once I’m over the idea it’s almost too easy. The tie that binds me is a touch larger than the average problem thread, but the solution remains the same.

SNIP

Tension dissipates. Lateral motion slows, and I hear a regal bellow somewhere above me. It doesn’t matter. As the vacuum pulls me downward I close my eyes and picture you.

***

Entire constellations obscure my vision as the back of my head impacts a hard surface with an audible crack. Supernovas detonate in the aftermath, entire systems wiped out only to be reborn with renewed twinkling around the outer plane of my pupils. Something is wrong. I shouldn’t be hurting this much, I only feel like this when I’m conscious. Sitting up does little to inform me of my surroundings, or rather it does too much: one eye remains trained on the glossy tiled ground while the other picks up some reflective surface. That can’t be good. I can almost hear the sound of my eyelids forcing themselves closed as I make myself blink, hoping the two have settled their differences and formed a truce so I can see straight.

The fact that I’m seeing one image instead of two is a vast improvement, but straight isn’t really accurate. I can’t keep my eyes trained in any specific direction; vision keeps drifting back and forth, seeing yet barely comprehending. My left eye keeps trying to close. It’s annoying.

It becomes more than annoying now that I’ve caught first glimpse of the monsters surrounding me. It only lasts a moment but even a passing look is terrifying. It’s almost zombie-like in appearance. Its mane is messy and matted to a ridiculous extent – to the point it looks far more like a darkly colored mop than actual hair. Its eyes are beyond bloodshot, bursted capillaries pushing it over the threshold of pink to burgundy. It’s coat is wild, more like the fur of an albino diamond dog than a pony. My only respite is that it — and its fellows, I appear to be surrounded — doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to eat me; For beings with such a savage appearance they’re sitting surprisingly still, looking back and forth to each other in a lopsided and stunned manner.

Actually, now that I think about it, the one in the middle looks like she’s having as much trouble focusing as I am… as does the one behind her, and the one behind her, and the one even farther back. The line goes astoundingly far back, like an endless column of shaky head wagon ornaments.

Wait. I lean to the left and watch the entire column in front of me follow suit. The column to my left and right does the same.

An avalanche realization leaves me halfway between laughing and crying. I’m surrounded by maze of mirrors and the only monster is me.

“This is gone far enough, my little pony.”

Powerful. Robust. Just plain loud. The voice sounds familiar. It should probably leave. Here there be dangers: Lots and lots of dangers that live in a mirrors and lean back and forth. Left right left right.

“Take a moment to reflect.” The voice tells me.

“Why yes, you’ve made it rather hard not to.” The mania is infectious. I snicker, which makes the me in front of me snicker, instantly erupting into escalating laughter that cumulates in a strangely singular cackle. I can’t explain why but its positively hysterical.

“Why did you cut the cord?”

“Because I … I wasn’t ready to come up yet.”

There’s no immediate answer. Instead, the hexagon shaped enclosure expands, wiping out the row of ponies in front of me in an instant. The rows on my left and right recoil in horror, and then start laughing because they’ve remembered they don’t have feelings. Teehee. Teeheeheehee.

Slow hoof-steps echo on the tile as something approaches. I’d look, but I’m too busy glaring at the row of me on the left. They stuck their tongues out at me a moment ago, I’m sure of it.

Princess Luna stands before me in all her ruffled elegance. Or perhaps she doesn’t – maybe I’m hallucinating because she doesn’t seem to have a reflection. Only that would be a hallucination within a hallucination.

“The cord was a link between your soul and your body. Your heart stopped. They’re now trying in vain to resuscitate you.

My sense of detachment is so complete the rising feeling of alarm strikes me as odd. I place a hoof to my chest, bewildered. “It stopped?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“… No.” The realization surprises me. “No I didn’t want that.”

“Why seek out the locket?”

“What locket—” I cringe, thoughts clawing at the strange gap in my mind.

“Why push yourself so hard? Even within the spell the bond between body and soul is not trifling string that is easily severed. Twilight couldn’t have known how hard you were pushing. Why throw yourself against fate itself – you must have known the cost, sensed it at the least?”

“Because… it’s all could do. I neglected her. I invited her to visit despite knowing she wouldn’t. I let her down, missed holidays, birthdays — so absorbed in trying to take care of her that I ended up missing the point. She must have thought I hated her. Maybe she started hating me, so much so that she wouldn’t even tell me she was—“

Dying.

The mirrors shatter into a thousand tiny fragments that surround me in a dome, splintering every iteration of me into dust. What does it matter who I am, my accomplishments. I failed - I’ve failed to do everything I’ve set out to do. What’s the point of selflessness without gain, sacrifice that averts nothing? Who am I when the dust settles. What am I?

Alive.

One by one, fragments begin to fall until Luna and I stand face to face once more.

“It is not wise to presume that which has not yet been revealed, my little pony” Cryptic words are underlined by pity. “It is not my place to speak on such things… but she does not hate you.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word on it.” Thinking of Twilight summons a wave of suppressed guilt.

“Only if you wish it to be so”

A cautious sliver of hope alights. “How?”

“It is a rule that we cannot misuse our power in a manner that attempts to rewrite the natural order of things…”

“But…?”

She shuffles from one hoof to the other. “But, that being said, the last few days can hardly be interpreted as anything resembling the natural order. The spell Twilight has casted is my magic, and alicorn magic operates outside the natural order by definition. You’ve been abusing it rather spectacularly, but since you’ve been doing so with no real understanding of the spell itself, reattaching your cord and restoring your mind could be justified as… resetting… the natural order.”

Relief and disappointment flood through me in equal measure. “There’s nothing you can do for Sweetie?”

She shakes her head sadly. “Horrible as it is, the sickness that plagues her is a part of the natural order… much as I wish it were not.”

“Of course.” Bitterness permeates every syllable.

Somehow, her horn doesn’t glow when she lifts me. I’m gently levitated towards her as if I weigh nothing. Perhaps I don’t. Warmth floods through me and calms the never ending storm in my skull. I take no relief in it. All I think about is you looking up, somewhere far below, wondering why I’m given another chance that’s denied to you.

“Make no mistake, this is simply a repair. When you go under once more… you will be tested.”

“How?”

“Your mind has become adept at manipulating the abstract dream-state. If there was any doubt of that, what you did to my mirrors proved it.”

Shattered reflective pieces litter the white tile. I wince, “That wasn’t intentional—“

“-Exactly. Meaning you can’t consciously control it, and that will only get worse.” The energy ebbs and she holds my gaze intently. “I forged this place to be resistant to such interference, yet it was decimated regardless. I will give you back the memory you lost, but it’s almost a certainty that your mind will begin to more aggressively alter things, especially when it comes to somepony you care for so intently. If it goes out of control it’s possible to trap one’s self… in more ways than one. Are you prepared for that?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in my voice.

The princess of the night regards me stonily for what feels like eternity, almost staring through me. “And you realize… often the answers we crave are harder to make peace with than the questions?”

Something in the way she says it chills me to the bone. “ I do.”

“So be it.” The sentence resounds with an echo as the incessant tugging makes an unpleasant return, pulling me downward. There’s something I have to ask before I let go. A splinter in my brain that has eaten at my sanity for a very long time.

“Princess?”

“Yes, my little pony?”

I bite my lip. “Is there an afterlife? A heaven?”

An ageless exhaustion flickers behind her eyes.

“I wish I knew.”

***

BANG BANG BANG

Harsh raps against wood echo loudly into an otherwise quiet Canterlot evening. The shop is so plain and rundown it would have taken hours to find in the middle of the day, finding it so long after midnight in the fog should have been impossible.

Tourist traps utilizing the guise of “magic” specialty shops in Canterlot are fairly easy to identify: Alicorn silhouette in the window frame, brightly colored shooting stars as primary decorative motif, rainbows. Shelves lined with the likes of horn oils, mana potions, fertility aids, knock off magic attire, and entirely absent anything of value. Such establishments appear pristine, for all intents and purposes, useless to a unicorn searching for any artifact of legitimate power.

The pungent odor wafting out from within as the door creaks open is an immediate giveaway that I’ve hit the jackpot.

A tired looking earth pony in a ruffled pajama robe opens the door, his grey braid swinging from side to side. “What in equestria is all the ruckus about?” he demands, irritation disappearing as he places his rounded spectacles over his nose and looks at me up and down. “Miss? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Polaris?” My voice is cold and abrupt.

“That depends on who’s asking.” He retorts, eying me uncomfortably.

“My name is unimportant. A contact informed me you were the pony to talk to about certain arcane artifacts — early monolith era, to be precise.”

“Sweet Celestia, do you have any idea what time it is!”

“A quarter to one, give or take a few minutes.”

“Quite!” He snaps. I stick my hoof in the door before he manages to close it. Reaching back, I flip open the top of my saddlebag, pivoting to show the contents. Appealing to greed was obviously the right choice, as the large volume of bits seem to have an almost hypnotic effect on the stallion. The hat comes off, almost respectfully.

“Um. Pardon my rudeness. I am Polaris, owner of this fine... establishment. What sort of artifact were you looking for specifically?”

“An enchanted locket, Prench.”

He peers over his glasses skeptically. “In Monolith era Prance? Enchanted trinkets, especially amulets and lockets weren’t exactly rare. Unless you know what you’re looking for you’d have better luck taking a balloon to Cloudsdale and asking for a pegasus.”

I’d push my way in but the shopkeep seems set on holding his ground. “I’m well aware of that. However, this locket in particular would be noteworthy for the time period. No embellishments or gems — nothing gaudy like ponies seemed to prefer back then — faded silver exterior, simple mirror on the inside. It had a few different names, but I believe the most famous was L'appel Du Vide—”

With a quick motion his kick dislodges my hoof and leaves me reeling in surprise, just before the door slams in my face. A few hard raps later I he yells from within. “You’re either an idiot, or dangerous. I sell no such items here. Go away.”

“Be reasonable!” I press my forehead against the door, wishing for it to open. “Do I look like some shady wiccan or rogue necromancer to you? I need it for research!”

“Research. Research that needs doin’ at one in the morning? Being an immigrant doesn’t automatically make me an idiot Missy, I wasn’t born yesterday. You unicorns and your confounded schemes. Likely with the Guard, trying to run a merchant out of town for selling perfectly safe — well, mostly safe - goods, and I won’t have it!”

Reason isn’t getting me anywhere. The startled feeling in my chest is beginning to subside into something colder than before, much colder, something I’ve only felt three times over the course of my life. There’s a reason the first rule of magic is to maintain control; Always keep calm, never cast when you’re under the slightest bit of emotional duress. It is vital.

It’s also impossible.

Magic and emotion are inexplicably linked. Emotion is a magnifier we’re meant to hide away, but the truth is every unicorn has a breaking point. Some ponies experience color changes or other alterations, others put giant holes in walls with a level power they could never summon under normal circumstances. With enough pain, anger, or sorrow, the most inept unicorn could move mountains.

What’s frightening, truly frightening, is the unnatural calm that settles over me. I’m not foaming at the mouth or slamming my hooves against the door. It is tranquility born from the depths of unfathomable rage, a rage that has been building with no outlet for quite some time. Breathing in as the feeling of raw power begins to encompass me, I begin to see the world as it truly is. I can hear the shopkeep milling about within, cries of a nursing foal the next block over, and quiet slumber of countless ponies around me. There is no door blocking my way; in its stead is a flimsy piece of composite oak, porous and rotted.

Look close enough and everything has a seam.

The wood disintegrates into sawdust, musk and a foul odor flooding the dim street as the curio decompresses. It’s interior is like a witch’s coven, corners hiding eye of newt and other freakish alchemical ingredients in the shadows. Jaw slack, the shopkeep comes to his senses as I begin to walk towards him.

“S-s-stay back. Guards!” He screeches, galloping around the counter in an attempt to escape through the now drafty entrance. Without looking back, I reassemble the door effortlessly, near microscopic particles reforming to block his way with better workmanship than the previous builder cared to use.

“What are you waiting for. Go ahead, call them.” Something in my eyes terrifies him. “Guards!” I call mockingly. “Somepony’s selling volatile arcane ingredients and artifacts without a license. Guards! This shop is currently violating fifty something city regulations. Oh guards? A little bird told me this establishment may have illegally sold a so-called “Alicorn Amulet” to a psychopath who used it to hold an entire town hostage—”

“Alright, alright! Lower your voice!”

“All I want is to make a purchase, Polaris. Bits are no object and I’m willing to pay a premium.”

“-And I appreciate that. I’m a business pony. But selling that locket could cost me my job. I can’t be implicated in more unicorn subterfuge. Maybe I could offer you a bargain on something else?”

“Give me L'appel Du Vide. Now, or I report you to the constabulary.”

“That locket is an abomination.” He backpedals around the counter, using it as a barrier to keep space between us.. “You have no idea what you’re asking. It’s beyond dangerous. Barbaric, it creates a symbiotic link between two souls — if one suffers the other will sustain it. If one is wounded it will feed off on the other to survive. If you were to trick somepony into wearing it unknowingly the consequences could be dire. Worse, it affects short term memory, she wouldn’t even remember putting it on—”

“Trust me when I say the only pony it stands to hurt is me.”

It’s a moment as he processes. “You intend to bear the locket...”

“And place it’s spiritual counterpart on another pony.”

“Who?” He asks, fear ebbing away into slow understanding.

The anger dissipates as my shoulders slump. “My sister.”

“She’s not well?”

“No.”

“Coma?”

“Yes.”

Because I wasn’t there for her

The dizzy spell hit like a gyrating anxiety attack. They’ve become more and more regular the longer I’ve stayed conscious. A stool is pushed beneath my flank before I fall backwards, as the shopkeep walks briskly away to open a nearby cupboard. The sudden change in his attitude is jarring.

“You realize, even if you manage to actually find a pony crazy enough to put you into a noctis sieve...”

“It could kill me, I know. I don’t intend to tell her. Plausible deniability.”

“Insanity. Utter foolishness.”

“Maybe. Probably.”

***

The performance hall screams, three spotlights molding your visage into something visceral and entirely larger than life. Lucky that well known Gryphon quartet cancelled at the last minute and you got bumped up to the main act. Good thing I told you to prepare a larger selection of songs. Funny how it all worked out that way. Cheers rattle the seats. Ponies are standing in the balconies to see. The girls are all here, your debut is all they’ve heard about from me for months. They’re a little bit closer than I am — My ticket is in the middle, slightly farther back than I would have liked – setting this up took all my concentration and kept me busy, so busy I forgot to reserve my own spot until it was almost too late. At the very least it’s better than Kerfluffle’s seat, I’m pretty sure she’s situated somewhere up in the nosebleeds.

Sapphire’s told me the progress you’ve made in several months of coaching has been astronomical, and she’s not exaggerating. I barely recognize your voice. Maybe its better I’m farther back, I’m sure the proud tears don’t look nearly as distinguished from the outside looking in.

“Thank you everypony!” The applause is still dying down — that’s the third drink of water you’ve taken in the last twenty minutes. You’re really taking the whole pop-star thing seriously. It was a bit of a surprise when you sent me your measurements – They were incredibly petite. Even though I made it according to specifications the magenta dress still seems too big. I asked you about it before the show, but you blew me off with a joke about a wonder diet and a promise you’d hook me up later. Suppose I have gotten a bit chubby around the waist. A little diet might be exactly what I need.

Oops. My heart flutters as you miss a step, nearly stumbling. This is your first time performing on such a grand stage; considering the heat of the lights and the sheer number of ponies watching of course you’d be a little lightheaded. Come on filly, keep it together.

“Thank you everypony, so much!” You repeat, smiling as the crowd roars their approval. I’ve always thought your singing sounded gorgeous, but I guess some part of me always wondered if it sounded so fantastic because you’re my sister and I’m hardwired to encourage you – the ponies yelling your name serve as a resounding rebuttal to that curiosity and I’ve never been so happy to be proved wrong.

“Unfortunately we’re almost out of time for tonight.” The crowd moans in disappointment. My heart sinks for a different reason. You’ve sung quite a bit already but you’re only halfway through the planned set-list. It doesn’t make sense for you to cut an opportunity this big so short – you dab at the sweat beading on your brow, and my eyes narrow. Are you sick? You’re not sick, you can’t be sick. You would have warned me beforehand – I can always work out another happy coincidence, you don’t have to push yourself for me.

“I do have one last song for the night. It’s a little on the slow side, but this song has always been special to me. I’d like to dedicate it to my sister, who helped make this night possible.”

Aw, that’s so – another wobble almost tips you over. Something’s wrong, that much is clear. I’m out of my seat. The thousands of spectators I was so thrilled to see are now a faceless legion of prismatic obstacles in my path. Trying to move quickly while retaining some modicum of etiquette is discarded the second I see you go down on one knee. I’m pushing and shoving to get to you. Twilight and the girls have stood up several dozen yards to my right, but they’re hesitating, not wanting to risk ruining your moment.

The pre-recorded soundtrack starts to play. Every blood vessel in my veins turn to ice freezing me solid for a heartbeat.

Why this song? Why dedicate this song to me?

Am I being punished?

Your stumble and half step to recover snaps me out of the fugue and sends me hurtling through the crowd.

‘Time to close your eyes’

The lullaby sends indescribable shudders running through me. The sense of horror is a mix between revulsion and self-loathing. It makes sense now and I hate myself for not seeing it earlier. The way your voice is wavering isn’t a stylistic choice. You can barely stand upright and your voice is as weak as your body. You’ve never dieted in your life. How did I not see it?

‘And save these questions for another day.

‘I think I know what you’ve… been—’

Your eyes roll up into your head seconds before your body keels over, hitting the stage with a barely audible thud. Our eyes meet a second before yours close, momentum from the fall keeping your body in motion. You’re about to fall off the stage head first and I’m nowhere near close enough to stop it. For the love of Celestia there are unicorns in the front row, somepony do something please –

My horn lights as I reach, faster and farther than I ever have before. It’s a longshot in more ways than one, but in moments like this desperation outweighs logic. Against all odds, I catch you before your head hits the ground. Fifty yards away and I somehow catch you even though you’d fallen out of my line of sight – rules of levitation be damned. The others gather around you in concern. Twilight’s still staring at me in awe.

A fall from that height could have easily put you in a coma. Not sure why that specifically comes to mind.

***

The front door bell rings merrily, indicating I have a guest. It jingles again ever so slightly and a smile graces my lips. Canterlot or Ponyville, some things never change.

“And what brings you into my lair today little sister?”

“Okay... that’s just spooky.” You grumble. “I like the new display though. You’re actually selling dresses again?”

“I was just surprised as you darling, but they’re selling. I suppose that’s the nature of business – what goes around comes around. How was touring in Prance?”

“They seem to like me a lot, though I think a lot of my fans there seem to assume I speak their language. Not that I don’t like their language, it’s beautiful, I just feel bad when they run up and talk to me and I can’t say anything back.”

“It’s the last name I suppose. Well, thankfully the smile and nod is universal.”

“Too true.”

“Give me a minute to finish updating the displays and I’ll close up early for the day! We can have a dinner, or a linner if you’ve yet to eat.”

“Okay.” You take a seat by the door. Despite all your accomplishments, sometimes I still see you as that tiny filly on a quest for her cutie mark. I watch you for a few seconds before I finally manage to tear my gaze away. I came so close to losing you it scares me even now. If Twilight hadn’t known about that magic apple in the draconic isles I’m not sure what would have happened. Speaking of which…

“Sweetie, you’ve been keeping up with that medicine I assume?”

Your nose wrinkles. “It tastes like fish oil.”

“Sweetie…”

“Yes, yes… I’m not a foal. I know it’s important.”

“Good. And try not to lose it. As invigorating as it was playing Daring Do with the girls, being chased by a flock of angry dragons isn’t an experience I’m eager to repeat.”

“You all kinda went through a lot for me, huh.” You wince.

“And we’d do it a million times over. We’d have gone to tartarus and back for you.”

“Yeah.” You cock your head. “Wait, no. Doesn’t it strike you as kind of odd though?”

My stomach drops. “What’s odd about it?”

“I mean, I collapse from a serious sickness. Twilight happens to know the exact cure without any research. Just off the top of her head.”

“It’s a bit rude to look a gift miracle in the mouth dear.” My voice is harsher than I mean for it to be. It’s just stress. Organization never ends in a big store and that can drive a pony who likes to finish things crazy.

You continue to follow as I adjust the displays, eventually rounding on me and cutting off my path. “Think Rarity. Why would she know how to fix me and not mom?”

“Can’t you just be happy?” I snap, anger inexplicably rising in my throat. “You’re here, I’m here, and we’re together. Why can’t you just let it go? We saved you. It was a little touch and go there but we saved the day. And why wouldn’t we? The elements of Harmony have saved Equestria from full scale invasions. Like that power would be trumped by some stupid disease.”

“You’re not thinking—“

“I WON’T THINK!” I yell, the scarf in my grip tearing down the seams. “I’M SICK OF THINKING. WE WON. WE DESERVED TO WIN. Dad just ran away, and we stuck by mom to the end – ISN’T THAT ENOUGH? HAVEN’T WE EARNED THIS!?

“It’s not real.” You choke.

“Sure it’s real! This store is real. I’m real. Those ponies outside are real.”

“Then why aren’t they moving.”

I look up incredulously only to see that you’re right. Outside is a photograph, a still. The clock on the wall has stopped. Only a few seconds after I acknowledge their absence they resume. The cruelty of it stuns me. “When … When did they.”

“When you lost it.”

“I… I think I’m going to be sick.” I turn. I just need to lay down and rest my eyes for a moment and it will all be okay.

“Don’t.”

“What, why?”

“Because if I let you out of my sight this will all just start again.”

“Would that be so bad?” Insanity whispers from my lips, or perhaps I’m thinking clearly for the first time.

“Yes.” Your eyebrows narrow. The irritation in your voice tells me you’ve heard this before, déjà vu via proxy.

You’re wrong. You’re wrong I can fix it I can make it better. Just need to stall long enough to figure it out. Twilight said that time works differently here – it’s more idiosyncratic, more relative. I’ve altered it before on accident; I just need to experiment until I nail down exactly what it was I did. If I can do that, even if you only have a few moments, why couldn’t those moments simply stretch on for a lifetime?

You shake your head. “Because that’s not living. Life is moving forward, gaining new insights and experiences. This is you playing at the future by recreating the past. It doesn’t work that way. It can’t”

The scene begins to change.

No. Focus, stop getting distracted. Go back to Carousel and rework everything from there. Only this time I can’t. Any hold I recover slips through my grip like melting ice. Long moments of confusion pass before everything comes into focus.

I begin to grasp that you’ve taken control just in time to step into the trap you’ve laid.

The beach, the outcropping of cliffs over the ocean; It snares me all too well, a punch to the gut that sends me to my knees heaving. It’s the piece I missed earlier, the small white cottage that delivers the crippling blow. Nurses in plain white garb help mostly elderly ponies about. A few gather on the outside patio for a smoke. It’s the opposite of a hospital in a way – a small, quiet place ponies go to sleep. It’s where I finally grew up. I couldn’t process it all before, couldn’t place it, but now it’s all too simple and the blow you’ve dealt sends me reeling back reality. It’s pinpoint, precise...

Excruciating.

“This is... Why… would you bring me back here?” I rasp through the pain. The tide pulls at my hooves needily, beckoning me to join it. I lay back, staring up at the clouds. The hospice house, the song, the secret – maybe you really do hate me.

“I didn’t want to do this. Twilight and Fluttershy tried to bring you back, but you completely blocked them out. You wouldn’t listen. Princess Luna said if I wanted to save you, I have to be honest with you. So I’m being honest.” The pain in your voice stings deeply.

The locket, the strange floating sensation I experienced in the hospital, it’s all starting to come together. “I’ve... I’ve been under this whole time? Ever since I first... Why didn’t anypony tell me?”

Your legs are shaking. “They tried. Twilight told you the noctis sieve could only last a few minutes and that wasn’t good enough. So you trapped yourself here and blocked out everypony — I didn’t want you to hurt yourself because of me Rarity!”

“Hush…” I push myself up. Trying to wipe away a tear from your cheek leaves sand instead. “Whatever I did was my choice. But honest is good. Though I’d rather you be honest because you want to.”

“You’ll think I’m terrible.” I’ve never seen you cry like this. It was always in your room, face hidden in the blankets. I’d always lay down by you and hug you from behind, but you’d never let me see.

“I could never think that.”

A flock of seagulls fly high above in V-formation, bound for better things. I want to reach out and rub your back, but I can’t. Trying to comfort you might only make it harder.

“I hated mom towards the end.” Your eyes are glued to the beach in shame, mane billowing softly in the breeze. “I really did.”

“…Why?” I whisper, trying to push down the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Because of what she did to you.”

“She was bedridden” I hiss.

“And she couldn’t possibly have known what she was doing.” you admit, torn. “Holding her hoof with that comforting smile, telling her it was all going to be okay and the bits were fine even though you sold everything you had to pay for treatment. She never saw what it was doing to you.”

“That’s what family does, we support each other.”

“Support doesn’t begin to describe it!” You’re shaking badly, though I can’t tell if it’s out of sorrow or anger. “I watched her drain you Rarity. She never saw what was left of you when you came out of that room, but I did. I saw how it broke you down, day after day. Hearing how miniscule the chances of recovery were despite your efforts, watching attempt after attempt fail.”

“She was dying...“

“And it fighting it was killing you.” Sweetie counters vehemently. “The only reason I don’t hate her now is because there was no way she could know. You were so good at hiding it. But that façade wasn’t perfect. Every time you walked out after visiting hours the mask would slip — if only for a moment — and I could see exactly how much of a toll it was taking. I watched you die a thousand deaths for her Rarity. That’s why I started running away. I couldn’t watch it anymore.”

Rivers of regret flood through me. “I… I’m sorry Sweetie. I’m so sorry. I-I should have been hidden it more carefully, been stronger for you—”

“That’s not the point.” Your back is to me again. “You shouldn’t have to be so strong, not after everything we’ve been through. We barely came back from it. Sometimes I feel like a part of you never came back at all. Even the part that did was cold for a long time. When I was diagnosed…” You fall quiet. “I saw a lot of doctors, got a lot of second opinions, and the consensus was that 99% of fillies my age with it die within three years.”

I bite my lip, driving a hoof into the sand. “That’s still one percent Sweetie…”

Your head whips around, looking at me in frustration. “And that - that right there is why I couldn’t tell you!”

All thoughts grind to a sudden halt. It all clicks into place and I begin to wish it would stop as my entire world begins to crumble.

Sweetie intercepts my gaze again, following it, not letting me look away. “I’d seen what you were capable of. I knew you’d fight even harder the second time around and I knew how much you’d give up for me without ever speaking a word of it. I knew it would crush you. And that was the last thing I wanted. I wanted you to be happy, to have your store in Canterlot and enjoy living again. And maybe some part of me didn’t want to spend the time I had left in a hospital bed getting treatments that would do little else other than making me more sick.”

“No…” I whisper. My world is falling apart. Nothing makes sense. Everything is a contradiction. I left you in the dark to pave the way, to build a path to something brighter. Instead I simply left you, and the dark was all you knew. Self-loathing surges through me. “Should have said what you wanted. I would have understood, let you make that choice. We could have toured the Known World, seen the nine wonders. Anything you wanted. Anything.”

“No. Because I think that would have hurt even more.” Your lip trembles. “Making you stand by me without being able to lift a hoof to stop it.”

“It would have been worth the pain.”

You smile at me sadly. “To love is to endure, so somepony else doesn’t have to.”

I sit down hard, wrapping my forelegs around my head as my breath escapes me. Poor advice given to a new little sister about a shoddy scarf comes back to haunt me. You’re paraphrasing, but I recognize my words regardless. It’s too much to take. The locket has disappeared from around your neck and hangs limply in my forehoof. I stare at it blankly.

“Rarity.”

The irony of it is palpable.

“Rarity you have to let it go.” I hear your voice, but I can’t look away from the locket in my hoof. “It’s hurting you, I’ve seen it. You have to let it go...”

You have to let me go.

My foreleg opens limply, releasing the necklace into the sea to be swept away in the waves.

The darkness tugs at my cord once more. This time I can’t fight it.

Luna was right.

***

I’ve never been aware of it before, but sleeping really does have a different texture than simply existing in an unconscious state. Unfortunately, sleep also comes with an unpleasant bedmate: Clarity. Clarity likes to hit a pony over the head when sleep is over and done with, reminding her of all the stupid things she did preceding it. The longer sleep is forgone, the more unpleasantness Clarity brings to the forefront; shambling around like an unkempt mad mare and treating friends terribly being two rather apt examples.

More than that, however, I feel frightened. I’m awake now but I have no way of knowing how much time I’ve lost. I stare holes into the latticed ceiling, feeling of dread in my stomach festering like a tumor.

I was supposed to stay with you until the end. I have no way of knowing how long it’s been, because I have no way of knowing how much time has passed at all. They moved me to a different room which is already more than a little worrisome. Now my ability to move is firmly paralyzed between fear of missing you and fear I may have already.

Clack Clack Clack Clack

Awake or unconscious, the sound of Dr. Redheart’s set of burberrys echoing down the hall remains the same. It’s nice to have an audible warning there’s a doctor is closing in, but it’s also like listening to a perpetual doomsday clock that may or may not be ticking down to your number. I’ve not prepared myself yet. Not even close. The heels continue to click and I can only hope that the dark harbinger passes me by.

“Ms. Rarity?” She takes a step in my doorway.

“Good afternoon Dr. Redheart.” I offer her a half smile. She backtracks momentarily with a scowl to double check the number of the room. I don’t remember talking to her at any point but judging from her reaction I’m not sure I want to.

“I... see you’re feeling better. Did you rest well?”

“Relatively, I suppose. How long have I been asleep — On my own, I mean?”

She chews on a pen, flipping through clipboard. “About sixteen hours.”

Panic seizes my chest. “Is my sister-“

Redheart shuffles her pen furiously in my direction as if to ward off an attack. “Calm down, calm down. She’s still with us… though there is something to be discussed. Walk with me?”

“Certainly. One moment” I move to the sink with the intent of splashing cold water on my face. Attempting to do so with my horn achieves nothing more than a dull ache and a slight deviation in the stream, the electric crackle of energy I usually feel during casting entirely absent. The possibility of permanent damage crosses my mind, but it’s the least of my worries. Using a hoof instead, I wipe the moisture from my face with a paper towel before joining Redheart in the hallway. My steps naturally fall in with the hers.

“Your sister’s condition is declining, some vital organs are already starting to shut down. Her body isn’t holding up well, and in most cases the pony would already be gone at this point. Her brainwaves should have begun to fade, but if anything they’ve increased over the last day or so.”

“Meaning?”

The metronome clicking of shoes against tile stops as Redheart visibly falters. “This is largely conjecture, but there’s often a pattern of this sort in patients with parents or ponies with close family members present. As you know it’s common for a pony in a coma to be able to hear voices from the outside...” She looks away.

A small part of me crumbles as I connect the dots. No reason to let Redheart tap-dance around the issue when I already know where it’s going.

“She’s waiting for me to say goodbye.”

“…Yes. That is a common theory. Studies show that it can be... conducive... to passing.“

“Thank you Doctor.”

I feel nothing but cold as I walk towards the room, the hallway and checkered tile stretching on into infinity. Twilight is sitting in a chair at your side holding your hoof.

Approaching quietly from behind I give her a light hug. “I’m sorry Twi.”

She shifts around to return the gesture, wrapping me in a fierce embrace. “Rarity — I thought we lost you.”

“Won’t be getting rid of me that easy my dear.”

“Don’t you dare ever pull a stunt like that again. And trust me, there was nothing easy about any of it.” She assures me with a grin which immediately grows crestfallen. “Dr. Redheart gave you the news?”

“She did. I need a favor.”

“You’re racking up quite the backlog, but shoot.”

“I need you to put me back under.”

Twilight stares at me, eyes almost bugging out of her head. “After everything we just went through to get you out? Not to mention that’s more than dangerous Rarity, especially at this stage. Further exhaustion will risk compromising your leylines permanently.”

I nod. She’s right to doubt me, but I’m thinking more clearly now than I have in quite some time. I lead her outside the room by the hoof to be certain you can’t hear what we’re saying. It takes her awhile to agree but she does, looking as despondent as I feel.

I reenter the room and lay down on the bed across from you, for what will probably be the last time.

***

Somehow I knew you’d still be on the beach. It’s a little different, the surrounding plateau has disappeared and the hospice house is gone. Now there’s nothing but ocean and sand, as far as the eye can see. A crumpled body lays a few yards ahead, almost touching the water. I sit down in the sand next to you to scoop you up in my hooves, pulling you to me. I make a valiant effort to silence the sorrow that racks my body but I can’t help the shudders.

You’re so small in my forelegs, so much smaller than you were just a matter of hours ago.

“Rari… you came back.” You pat my foreleg gently. I fake a chuckle to hide another sob

“Of course I did.”

“You— you’re not mad at me?” making a considerable effort for your tiny body, you twist, trying to get a better look at me, as if the answer is the most important thing in the world to you.

“Whatever for? How could I get angry at the most precious little sister in the world?” I reach down and nuzzle your cheek. Instead of pushing me as usual you let out a girlish giggle – you’ve regressed so much it almost breaks my heart.

The sun lowers slowly, setting the horizon aflame in hues of pink and orange. Whatever tide there was previously has all but vanished - the ocean is a plane of glass, reflecting light without so much as a ripple. Clouds move across the sky lazily, fluffy curves invoking random shapes, it invokes a nostalgia that I can’t help but humor.

“I spy, with my little eye… an elephant.”

“There!” You point excitedly up excitedly, several clouds to the left. The one you’ve picked is really more of a coffee cup than an elephant, but saying so would be tad pedantic.

“Well done! Now you find one.”

“Kay.”

The game goes on for a while. I think I’ve exhausted every cloud in the sky looking for your so called “blob.”

Your look of victory is interrupted by a sudden cringe. “…Rari?”

“What’s wrong dear?”

“My head hurts.”

“Is it a little hurt or a big hurt?”

“Kinda big...”

Placing a hoof on your forehead I bury my face in your back gently, letting the smell of apricots and marshmallows distract me from the agony of what I’m about to do. “That’s—“ My voice catches on the syllable. I turn my head away from you to clear it, steeling myself once more.

“That’s actually a good thing darling.”

“Really?”

“Really.” I run a hoof through your mane. “It means you’ll get to go somewhere special soon.”

“Where?”

“Well, I’ve never seen it myself, but the alicorns say it’s a beautiful city. A place where the streets are paved with gold.”

“Wouldn’t they get dirty?”

“No you silly goose.” I peck her on the cheek gently. “Because there’s no dirt there. None of the yucky and sad stuff we have here. No dirt, no sickness, no pain.”

“It sounds shiny...” you observe drowsily.

“It would have to be, wouldn’t it. In fact, if you look really closely you can see its spires on the other side of the ocean.” I concentrate. The golden city flickers in the distance.

“I... I see it! How do we get there?”

“You just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“You’ll come with me?” You ask with an innocence that rips my resolve to utter shreds.

“...I can’t yet dear. They haven’t picked me yet, so I have to stay here a while longer.”

“Guess I am a little tired tired.” Your eyelids droop dangerously low, only to suddenly reopen. “What if… What if I don’t know anypony?”

My smile is a desperate attempt to keep it together. “Mommy will be there waiting for you.”

“But I don’t want you to be alone...” It’s an innocent, compassionate observation. You couldn’t possibly know how effectively it would destroy me. I bury my face in your mane again to hide a pained grimace and swallow the bile rising in my throat.

“I won’t be alone.” I whisper softly in your ear. “ I’ll have you and Mommy to watch over me, right?”

“Yeah... I guess so...” You’re too distracted trying to keep tired eyes open to argue. It’s a losing battle.

In a lot of ways it always was.

“Rari?”

“Yes Sweet Bee?”

“Can you sing to sleep? Like you sang for mom?”

The smile somehow remains plastered on my face even as your words knock the breath out of my lungs. “Her lullabye?” .

“Yes please.”

One more look at your expectant eyes is the crack that breaks the dam. I lose it in a fit of sobs, holding you tightly to me. Playing it off as laughter is much harder this time.

“What’s wrong?” You tug on my forelegs, trying to get to get a look at my face.

“Nothing, it’s just funny. Big sis just thinks it’s funny. You’re probably the only pony in the world I’d sing that song for. Nopony else is special enough, you know that?”

“Uhuh!”

“Of course you do.” How could you not, priceless as you are. “Well... I’ll make you a deal; if I sing, can I pick you up like I used to?”

“...I’m not a foal.” you wrinkle your nose, too tired to feign offense.

“And I’m not a singer.” I cluck my tongue.

“Fine.” You look away embarrassed as you’re lifted, cradled in my forelegs. So light... so tiny.

“Good-

My throat might as well be lined with sand. I close my eyes. Never have I simultaneously known without a shadow of a doubt what had to be done and wished so desperately to be spared of it. Everything in me begs me to wait, searching for an alternative I already know doesn’t exist. But there is no alternative, and I’ve waited too long already.

There is only what is, and what will be.

My second try comes out sounding like a squeak. The third actually forms a syllable. And the fourth is the point of no return.

“Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes,

And save these questions for another day,

I think I know what you've been asking me

I think you know what I've been trying to say

I promised I would never leave you

And you should always know

I never will be far away

Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep

And still so many things I want to say

Remember all the songs you sang for me

When we went sailing on an emerald bay

And like a boat out on the ocean

I'm rocking you to sleep

The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart

You'll always be a part of me

Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream

And dream how wonderful your life would be

Someday we'll all be gone

But lullabies go on and on

They never die

That's how you and I will be...

I trail off, silent sobs racking my body. You hang limply in my arms, smiling softly, eyes closed, breath forever absent.

… “Sweetie?”

No answer.

If I squint my eyes, I can almost see your chest rise and fall. You’re just sleeping, of course. You’ve had a very long couple of weeks. I stare at the golden city through blurry eyes as I rock you, repeating the final verse until the lyrics devolve into a soundless whisper

***

Epilogue

Dear Sister,

Prior to anything else, I’d like to apologize for the rather abysmal state of my penmanship. Thanks to months of physical therapy I’m actually writing with my own horn again — while it’s certainly an improvement over previous by-hoof doodles, it’s still nowhere near my usual level of flair.

I bought back the Boutique in Ponyville. After much deliberation I’ve decided the gargantuan, self-perpetuating monster that is Carousel Professional will continue placating the masses in my absense; Kerfluffle will see to that. The plan is to eventually bring her on as an official partner as I have no intention of returning to that line any time soon

That being said, it feels odd working out of Ponyville again, almost counter-intuitive: moving forwards by trotting backwards. Writing is one thing, but my leylines are still too unstable for any coordinated detail work, or so I’ve been told... repeatedly. Honestly, the first few weeks back at it were so miserable they nearly broke my resolve altogether. Fluttershy and Pinkie have been helping a great deal, but even with their assistance the process of adjusting to hoof tailoring has been an ongoing exercise in self-flagellation. Work that would have taken mere minutes before now drags on for hours, to the point I often forget what I had in mind originally. I hated it... at first.

It’s taken months, but I’m finally beginning to see the upside. Designing in Canterlot was all about speed and efficiency - Identifying the most popular trends and outputting product before those trends became obsolete. Lucrative? Naturally, but perhaps at too high of a cost. Considering the amount of effort that goes into every last stitch of my projects now, I don’t think it would be possible to detach myself from my work even if I wanted to. I’d forgotten the joy of designing simply to forge something wonderful and new, motivated by nothing other than spontaneous inspiration. “Creating from the heart” - a sentiment I long thought to be impractical, idealistic foolishness - is now an everyday endeavor. Most of what I make goes on display without a pricetag; If I sell anything, it’s custom work for the small number of clients I take on a month, yet I find more satisfaction in it now than I ever did in Canterlot.

I have you alone to thank for that.

I’d be lying if I said there are never bad days, days I can’t bring myself bring myself to get out of bed. They grow less frequent over time, but when they hit, they hit hard. Sometimes it feels like I’m stuck in a nightmare and if I simply close my eyes long enough the dream will fade to the smell of a burning breakfast and sounds of you running around the kitchen in the panic. I’ll lay there for hours until it begins to settle in that I’ve mistaken dream for reality. On those days it’s like an impenetrable fog settles over me, constricting my thoughts.

You’ve made it very difficult to justify wallowing around in that self-pity, though. I still don’t agree with your decision to keep everything from me, but I’m beginning to understand. You chose to live your life to the fullest regardless of the time you had left. You wanted the same for me, which inconveniently enough, means I can’t wallow in depression for too long without feeling like I'm failing to honor your wishes. That was your intent, I think. Always too clever for your own good.

Learning to live for myself is hard. I honestly don’t know if I can. Sometimes when the fog encompasses me I want nothing more than to exist purely in the past, sustaining myself with old photo albums and an unhealthy amount of denial. But a wise pony once told me that living is the very act of moving forwards.

Even if when it feels insurmountable, I’ll try, little sister. I can give you that.

Yours Always,

Rarity