10 Months, 2 Days (Ibid.)
"It all looks so beautiful."
"Sir, you flatter me too much."
There was no compliment that I could give that would be deemed 'too much' when this unicorn was concerned. Her voice was a comforting symphony to me. It sounds abstract to say that, but the natural rhythm of the world had always proven itself to be of great interest to me. Music, or indeed particular pitches and tones, had forever been a great indicator of how I would come to feel about somepony. An oafish-sounding ruffian-pony would receive little of my time and less of my patience; a savvy-businesspony of a crystalline complexion and voice would leave me feeling cold and resentful. When this unicorn spoke, however, her dialect and diction denoted something incredible to me; it was a voice that one could fall in love with, and a soothing rhythm if ever I heard one.
It must sound ridiculous to the untrained ear that I would spend such a long time fascinating myself with the dalliance of the unicorn's voice. I partially blame my romantic aspirations, and otherwise view my obsessions as having been influenced by the great writer-ponies that had so nibbled away at my own linguistic form. Sentimentality often eluded me quite consciously, and it was nothing short of perplexing that I had crossed such stimulating paths with this delicate mare, especially as my intentions in being within Ponyville had never initially involved this purple-maned object of desire. I still, to this day, ask myself why I had chosen to make it my familiar locale. To rationalize, my main reason for going to Ponyville in the first place was in order to escape pretty much everywhere else. In Equestria, when you want to lose yourself, there are three destinations that one can seek: the outer shanty towns, Manehattan and Ponyville.
Those shanty towns are as unappealing as they sound; the locals are cowpokes and bandits and other unsavoury types. That was a world for country-folk, and certainly not for one as refined as me. I was born in Manehattan, albeit the Cheapside, but it did not take me long to get out of there. To most, I am a Trottingham pony; the sort of pony who stands by his convictions and carries himself with grace and humility. We may not be the most emotional of ponies in Trottingham – our hubris and stiff upper-lip is world-famous – but we make up for our stoicism through our dependability and rugged constitutions. If ever a pony is in need, they go to Trottingham. Which, as I say, is a far more desirable location than the shanty towns of the outer-realm, and one would have to be mad to try and find solitude among the tumbleweed. After all, if one wishes to desert, going to a deserted place is a rather foolish conception of wit; indeed, it is the equivalent of drawing a red mark on an otherwise blank sheet and asking somepony to locate the irregular spot. Truly, if one wishes to escape, they must go somewhere populated, else they stick out like a sore hoof.
Which brings me to the second location for leaving Equestria behind; Manehattan. For obvious reasons it may seem odd to attempt to escape by going to one of the largest cities in Equestria – Canterlot finds itself in the same situation – and yet, given my previous reasoning, it is, in fact, the perfect place to lose oneself. After all, who would find a pony among a crowd of thousands, and what pony would waste their time looking for one in such a tempestuous mass? In Manehattan, one could disappear behind a group of clerk-ponies and stay there out of sight for days, sheltered beneath the incessant waffling that so aptly leaves their serpentine tongues. For, you see, this is why Manehattan is not a place that I would personally choose to escape to, for the population, although vast, are vacuous and prone to thriving upon nature's most illicit inhibitions. Manehattan must be the only city in Equestria where one can speak with the native population for hours on end and actually lose information from the brain; it leaks out, as if their very words make the listener less intelligent by the second. This is no doubt due to their ruthless obsession with gossip.
It is not all bad in Manehattan; of note is an old companion of mine by the name of Gazette who works for a very specific branch of the Manehattan Media – he is a journalist for the Rococo Report – that would never print lies and resort to shaming others. They are a satirical paper run by wits, and Gazette had made his name in attacking preconceived notions about the secondary monarch, Princess Luna, disguised as a pornographic series of lithographs but in fact consisting of anything but. It was a humourous article of witticism beyond the common rabble, which is arguably why it had become so popular; so many had stumbled into the obvious pitfall of believing it to be a true account of saucy bedroom-shenanigans. If they had requested a refund, Gazette would likely have made more money and fame by writing a mocking retort about how they should have known better than to sexualise royalty. For him, no story was too risqué and burlesque to print.
Alas, the Rococo Report makes up very little of the Manehattanite community, among which are the most lamentable ponies imaginable. Old Manehattan, my unfortunate birthplace, remains a disgusting hovel, abandoned by contemporary regulations for sanitation and not only allowed to stagnate, but actively encouraged to do so through shameful neglect. In its natural state of poverty, those living within its confides are stunted by an understandably myopic world-view, that everything outside of their immediate sphere of influence is in a similar state of disarray, and thus making a conscious effort to improve conditions would be a worthless exercise. There are no physical barriers between Old Manehattan and the Manehattan published in the papers; the gravity pulling one back into its murky depths is a social constraint rather than a preventative wall. I found the strength to leave; others should as well, or else they should avoid complaining about their dire condition for fear of hypocrisy.
Those of the greater city are no better, for although they have wealth, they have not been educated in how to spend it wisely. When one has money, the correct thing to do is to use it sparingly, when one finds the immediate need. 'Expenditure when necessary' should be the manifesto of the wealthy elite, and yet one cannot walk the streets of Manehattan without being trampled by a portly stallion, an entertainer of many mistresses, who has fallen foul to the meat-market hooves of gluttony, vomiting onto his lady's diamond-encrusted dress due to his over-indulgence. And she, no better, would have thousands of perfumes on hoof to spray herself with to rid her of his repugnant odour, and a cleaning apparatus in her petticoat that could remove any stain within moments. The root cause of it all is, of course, living by excess.
So no, Manehattan is not a place that I could find my escape without wishing to kill myself in the process. Which, naturally, leaves me with only one option: Ponyville, the small hamlet prone to lazy evenings and even lazier nights. Very little is written about Ponyville; the locals are regarded as being neighbourly and inoffensive, yet lacking in refinement. They do not acknowledge fashion in Ponyville; they wear what they can find, and more often than not nothing at all, which is seen as being grossly uncouth to outsiders. The first time that I saw a bare pony in Ponyville I found myself strangely appalled, and yet the bestial side of me wished to know more about their ways and to bask in their celebratory nakedness. Modesty is not a word in the Ponyvillian vocabulary, or, at least, that is what I had come to believe prior to meeting the unicorn standing before me.
She was a lyrical sort and certainly not a typical resident of Ponyville; she seemed to subconsciously emulate the social elite without adhering to their flaws. I found her uniqueness to be spellbinding, especially as she was an inarguable beauty. Although she carried herself with the poise and eloquence of a cultured pony, she had not yet been tainted by the outside world. And that was, hoof on heart, why I likely found myself becoming so interested in her. There is an innate beauty in seeing somepony as wonderful as her having not yet succumbed to realising how wonderful they are. There is a humble innocence to it that is lacking elsewhere. By walking the streets of Manehattan or Canterlot, you could find ponies as beautiful as this one; but beneath the exterior would beat a heart that palpitated only to the rhythm of a bank statement and a flank that had been mounted by countless stallions. This mare, as far as I could deduce, had not yet been punished in such a way, and I was thankful for this.
The unicorn had a scent, or rather, a fragrance that clung to my body the longer I remained in her presence. It wasn't from a bottle, but rather a natural aroma recalling the sweetness of honey and the nostalgic subtlety of a book-pressed lotus leaf. Her mane had been curled, and yet I saw no curling device in the room, and of greater importance was that she did not stop every minute or two to reflect on her reflection. Rather, her work took priority – I had been told this much from Twilight Sparkle and her friends – and she was the most devoted artisan that I had ever laid eyes upon. A mere glance around her home would unveil secrets of the most wonderful variety: lovely patterned dresses woven with silk and lace; scarves of maroon and earthy greens that would embrace one's neck in a most delightful way; and, most impressively, luxury items of topaz and opal and baby-blue sapphires. I could not contemplate what may have been in the back-room, for the shop floor was already a veritable paradise. To those that would pooh-pooh Ponyville, I say away with them! The fashion in the town, even if it was exclusive to this one location, remained the most regal and ornate that I could have imagined.
Beauty and style, this pony had, and she was blissfully unaware of it. I gave my name and she liked it as much as I would have expected; it was not the sort of title that one would normally hear within Ponyville. I had heard her name from Twilight Sparkle, but I did not consider it to be real until she uttered it herself at the end of our lengthy conversation.
Rarity.
That name changed everything for me. The pony that I would become after having heard it may not have been the same pony that had received it, but I am not afraid to admit that I was changed irreversibly in the wake of that encounter. My escapism became linked to her own; I had sensed a lamentation in her voice that was just dying to break free to a pony who was willing to listen. And although time and investment may have been required to learn of the true intricacies of this pony, the simple fact of the matter was that she was worth committing to. In this life, there is nothing of greater importance than loving those that deserve to be loved. In that moment, within the old converted loom with the creaky floorboard at the top of the stairs, it dawned upon me that it would be a mistake to allow her to become just another face in the crowd. If I had left Ponyville after that chance encounter, I would regret it; for no such unicorn had ever left an impression such as that upon me, and I was of the belief that never would another since.
As changing as beliefs may be, I don't regret the change that she invoked in me.
For a brief few months we were undeniably happy, images of which now comprise my memory.
0 Months, 27 Days
It's difficult to give a fuck when you don't give a fuck, I've found. I was in trouble again with the staff of the hospice, and as much as I would like to say that I cared, I truly didn't. Taking Rarity out into the grassy meadow a few days ago still hadn't blown over; apparently I had deprived her of necessary sustenance and now she was all the weaker for it. For the last couple of days they had been thoroughly reluctant to even let me see her, perceiving me to be some sort of antagonist in Rarity's tragedy, although they really couldn't keep me from showing up at the doors and making my way through to her bedside. The security pony didn't understand what we were going through. Had he ever lost anypony? Had he ever hurt anypony? Sure, he may have thrown a few choice ponies out of that place during his shift, but had he ever, truly, hurt another pony? I did not believe so.
The doctor was back in business, throwing his weight around again until Rarity regained consciousness, during which time he would take his leave of the room, only wishing to associate with her when she was dying and thus when his job demanded it. Her words to me were becoming harder to really make sense of; I'd never seen her this inarticulate and weak. Opening her eyes had become a strain, so much so that the blinds were now permanently closed and the only real light came from the monitor that checked her heart rate. It was still running at a steady pace – a prolonged wire of digital green that encoded her life achievements within a machine.
Rarity could tell that I was still there by my warmth. Her body was always cold now. I think it was probably due to her loss of weight and body fat, but possibly due to the thinning of her blood from the various toxins being pumped into her body. The blankets and sheets within the hospice weren't enough to keep her warm now. Even going to our boutique and finding the biggest wool duvet that I could find hadn't helped; she complained that the cold came from within, and so no amount of layers could help her. She needed warmth inside of her, but she was too fragile to take anything that I could offer.
Mealtimes were a cruel joke, as she lacked the strength to eat without extensive supervision, which she clearly detested as it embarrassed her to be fed like an infant. So quick had her descent into destruction been; not two weeks ago we had been eating carrot cake together and she had spoken of a hungry appetite returning to her. She had been recovering, but now she was worse than ever. Her lips were coated in a crusted layer of dead skin, the likes of which had cracked and bled. Her body had become so frail that it pained her to sit up in her bed, and the rusted banshee-cry of the mechanism itself was enough to make her whinny in fear. She had a scent, still, but it was a bad one; a grotesque combination of sweat, tears and blood, garnished with whatever fluid passed through her. The greatest offender, however, was her inability to open wide those once-beautiful blue orbs, that had always punctuated her every action and given meaning to her madness. In the dark she could still find the strength to do so, sometimes, but these occasions were becoming less frequent.
I believed that Rarity was sleeping. She was doing that a lot now; a lack of consciousness made the pain go away for a while. I guess having your eyes closed for a long period of time helps in the sleeping process. What's the point in even waking if you're in the dark when you do? But immunity through sleep was only a passive remedy, for nightmares had begun to plague my fair Rarity. She had never been one to experience malicious sleep, but she now awoke in cold sweats that demanded that she weep. And through those tears poured countless fears, none of which could be quantified by her tongue. Her lyricism was failing her. Everything felt wrong.
I decided to get some food and water, for I still had the ability to eat. I had not caught Rarity's infection, and my stomach had resisted the untimely process of corrosion. I sat up, but Rarity's hoof gripped onto mine. She was awake after all, or just responding to base instinct; whatever the cause, I could not leave now.
"I didn't know you were awake," I said.
"...You didn't ask..."
I suppose I didn't ask that time because there would have been nothing to respond with should she have been awake. Asking if somepony is awake requires a follow-up question, but conversation had now become arbitrary and horrible. A question asked without interest in an answer given is a gesture ultimately devoid of value.
"Do you want some water?"
"...Yes..."
I looked around for the jug. It was on the other side of her bed. I attempted to get up to walk around to it, but she refused to let go of my hoof, only gripping tighter.
"If you want some water, you're going to have to let go."
"...Then leave it."
I fell back down into the small chair and felt her hoof relax. There was no danger of her losing me now. I remained with my hoof there for a few minutes, feeling a tickling sensation against the tip. It was the white band around Rarity's hoof; she had been given it the day that she had arrived at the institution. Now it had fallen down her leg and hoof to touch against my own; no doubt her hooves had thinned in harmony with her body and blood, and the band to signify her time here was nearly falling off. The band itself signalled that she was a dying patient, and carried various symbols upon it that formed an exclusive medical identity for her. I also had to wear one of those bands, but only during visiting hours. Mine was slightly different; it had a similar digit code but lacked the impending eulogy above it that read 'Emergency'. I guess I still had some time left before the hospice would claim me.
Time continued to stagnate and I knew that Rarity was asleep, for she was making a disgruntled breathing noise that implied that she was snoring with a painfully parched throat. Still, I could not let go of her hoof for fear of waking her, so I remained there as I was in a static position, becoming part of the furniture that Rarity could use. A while later the door opened and the doctor came in; he performed his usual routine of checking if Rarity was dead or just asleep and then turning to leave after finding out her heart was still in beat. He must have timed his comings and goings with utter consistency, for too often did he enter when Rarity was out of consciousness so that he could slack off from helping her. This time, however, he didn't leave, instead looking towards me.
"You should go home," he said. "It's been two days since you've slept. I think that Rarity will still be here tomorrow."
"You think," I responded fiercely. "You don't know anything."
"I know that her condition is worsening," he replied childishly. He paused for a moment. "You should rest while you can," I heard him say, not quite understanding the meaning of his words.
"What are you talking about?"
He sighed and approached me, pulling up a second chair from against the wall. He sat opposite me, closer than I would have liked. His eyes seemed bloodshot and he did not appear anywhere near as well-kept as he usually did. There was a deranged look in his eye, as if he had also been avoiding sleep for some time. No doubt he was trying to appear just as worried about Rarity as I was.
"I don't know what to tell you," he said earnestly. "We're just... counting down the days now."
"Days?"
"Days."
Days seemed awfully short! I had not slept in two days, as the doctor had rightfully pointed out, and the time had drifted by without any substantial acknowledgement on my part. Days were short and meaningless; they were for sleeping through and barely recalling!
"You can't be serious," I said bitterly.
The doctor shook his head, looking down to the ground beneath my hooves. "Look at her," he said woefully. "There's not much time left."
"Two weeks ago you said you had no idea how long Rarity had left!" I spat, a familiar lump thrusting against the inside of my throat. "You can't now tell me that our time is almost up! We haven't had time to prepare!"
I saw a trickle of a tear leak down the doctor's cheek. "The hospice is preparation," he said, shaking his head. "It is where all good ponies go to die."
Something odd happened then.
The doctor began to cry.
He cried in a way that I had never associated with stallions. His tears, rather than retreating, openly fell with increasing longevity, smattering against his hooves as he buried his head between them. I did not know how to respond to him, but found myself intoxicated and less judgemental towards him during the ordeal.
"How do you watch your loved one die before you?" he asked me bluntly. It seemed so surreal to have the doctor seeking advice from the patient; I had none of the expensive education that he had received under my belt. I was unsure how to respond to him, but I knew that soon my tears would be falling, answering the desperate rhythm of his own calling. "I have never felt the loss of a loved one," he continued, "but if I was to lose my young colt or my wife, then I would just..."
"You would cease to function," I said, and I watched as the doctor nodded in time with my words. "You would feel as if nothing else mattered."
"Do you feel that way?" he questioned me. If this was all just some elaborate test, then I was falling for his ignoble module.
"...I do..." I found myself mouthing. "I have no idea what I'm going to do when this is all over. I can't even begin to predict what will happen next."
"Do you think that you'll be able to live with yourself?"
I thought upon his words rather awkwardly, for they carried greater meaning to me than the doctor could have known. I closed my eyes tightly to restrict the visible leak from within. Instead, they sought to drown my sockets. "After this, I don't think what remains will be considered living."
This doctor knew now of my greatest weaknesses. But, like I said, it's difficult – nay, almost impossible – to give a fuck when you just don't. And hell, maybe I deserved somepony to talk to about all of this. Whatever this doctor was going through, he could not entirely relate; and yet, by taking a moment to put myself in his hooves, I felt as if I could see the world from his depressing angle. In his job, he must have seen the death of many; not only those within the hospice who wore bands of burial, but also those in hospitals who may have been getting better, only to fall foul of fortune. Being surrounded by death, one would think, would immunise a pony, and yet, perhaps from time to time, genuine emotion managed to get through. By the looseness of his emotion, this doctor was clearly not of Trottingham; but, as I sat there with him, crying and snivelling before our sleeping Rarity, I could not help but acknowledge that neither was I.
"I've seen ponies die," he said. "Some deserved it, most did not. Seeing you here with Rarity just makes me realise how much you care for her. You have invested, even in the absence of hope."
"There was hope when we met," I insisted to him. "An absence of hope is the source of neglect."
"And you could never neglect her," he replied softly. "I have seen the way that you show her love and respect."
He took a deep breath, drying old tears away with his hooves. "How did the both of you meet?" he questioned me. It was a long time ago that such a life-changing event had transpired, and yet I recalled the memory vividly, as I could with accounts of many of our earlier days together. I did not know why I had chosen to remain engaged in conversation with this doctor, but his presence somehow appeared as less of a threat to me than ever before during that interim.
"Did Rarity not tell you this already?"
"She did," he said, "but her recollection may differ from your own."
The thought that Rarity could feel differently about the grace of our meeting was all but fleeting.
"I was in Ponyville for no real reason, really," I found myself saying. If it was weakness to give in to this stranger, then I was understandably of ill-health that day. "I had no intention of staying but I stumbled upon Rarity by my own volition."
"Did you know any of the locals?"
"Not really," came my admission. "I thought I did, but it turns out that I was incorrect."
"What happened next?"
"Rarity and I spoke at length, I must say. She seemed inspired by my interest in her. She told me about her desires to become famous and her brief flirtations with popularity in the past. As undesirable as some of those attempts had been, she believed things would be different next time; that judgement would be reserved and that the claws of criticism would be put away." I found myself smiling as I spoke of our bonding. "She had great aspirations that she set in rhyme: her motto was a dream of shining and of making others shine. Her generosity floored me."
"Her good nature is, indeed, a rarity."
I put my head back upon the chair and chuckled a little to myself. "She had this order that she needed to fill," I continued. "It was for some local enterprise, nothing at all important, and yet she couldn't bring herself to fall behind on it. She shooed me away as I browsed her collection, purely so that she could devote her time to her calling. She worked to a tight schedule. Time was always so important to her. But before I left, she gave me her name. To me it sounded like a natural marriage with fame."
"You predicted good things for her?"
"I wanted her to realise her potential," I sighed. "But to do that, I've done terrible things. Through my good intentions, I have cheated and lied."
"It is not my place to judge you," the doctor replied. "We've all made mistakes."
"Meeting Rarity was no mistake," I confirmed to myself. "It was my greatest accomplishment. And when I returned to her boutique the second day, and the third and the fourth, she soon realised that we belonged in each other's company. I worked for her, and we became fast friends; I helped introduce her to the ponies that would become her mentors. We moved in together, and we become closer still. And when her health began to show cracks, I did my best to protect her from herself."
I squeezed her hoof, finding the tears returning. I looked to the doctor once again; he had been listening intently to my words and appeared humbled by our tale. But as I began to cry once more, and Rarity's hoof pressed back against my own, I realised that our earliest memory together was a lifetime in the past; a series of perfect visions that were fading fast.
"What will happen?" I found myself asking suddenly, my lip trembling. It was such a stupid question and utterly out of context with our previous discussion, but it was one that I had to ask. "How will she die?"
The doctor rubbed his hoof across his face, drying his bulbous eyes of tears. Perhaps he had realised once again that he was still a professional, and that his duty to other ponies was as an informant rather than an emphatic companion. As pained as he was to explain it, he owed me that much. "You are asking me to describe it?" he questioned, and I nodded slowly.
"You said that the hospice is a place to prepare," I spluttered. "I have spent a long time denying the truth, but very little preparing for it."
He took a deep breath, looking towards Rarity. I wondered if she was still asleep. It would not be right to discuss this with her present. The doctor placed a hoof on her side and whispered her name, but she did not respond to him. He took that as the evidence that he required and spoke, his voice cracking on almost every note.
"Given her condition, Rarity's body will, in the simplest of terms, begin to shut down," he said, sounding as if he was reading from some monotonous list. "Her lungs will seize up, making breathing difficult. Her heart will ache and strain and fail. Her brain will be unable to communicate with her organs..." He took a deep breath. "Then she'll die."
"Will it be painful?"
"We'll do what we can to help her with the pain," he said. "Medicine and anaesthetic."
"Will she know that it's happening?"
"Yes," he said gravely. "She'll know."
Counting down time to an inevitable conclusion is far more difficult when such an end is described in such graphic terms. I am not afraid to say that I wept then more than ever before and for some time after, and I wanted to vomit, but my stomach was empty and I had nothing to wretch on. The doctor remained there with me for the entire time, saying nothing but somehow helping me. I guess it was just his presence; having him there somehow made things easier. I sniffed, my hoof still numb from holding tightly onto Rarity. The doctor walked to the other side of the table and poured us both out glasses of water from the larger jug. He manoeuvred a glass into my free hoof and I drank it down, burying my muzzle into the cup until my face almost became stuck inside it. When I finished he poured me out another glass, and then a third, which was enough to quench my thirst.
"You're welcome to go and check on other patients," I said after some time had passed. "I'm looking after Rarity just fine now." My momentary weakness in the company of the doctor was something I could overcome with time.
"Actually, I finished work almost two hours ago," he said, glancing at the watch on his hoof. He had his own band above it, just like Rarity and I. I found myself strangely impressed, although I didn't tell him so; he probably knew it already. He looked back towards Rarity and gave a little smile, standing up from the chair. "Will you be getting any sleep tonight?" he questioned me, but I shook my head.
"Not tonight," I replied. "I can't bring myself to."
He didn't pressure me to sleep. He just nodded in an understanding manner and walked towards the door. "You're both lucky to have one another," he said. "Never forget what she means to you."
"Thank you, doctor," I said to him earnestly for helping a pony in need; from then on I would remember his name as Tawleed.
He left the room on his trip home, closing the door softly as he went. I respected him more, for some reason, and yet I still found myself viewing him with scorn; for he had a wife and a colt – a family – and I had a decaying unicorn. When he left, the form beside me stirred. Of everything that Tawleed and I had discussed, she had been a witness to every word.
There was no chance left for Rarity to shine.
Now she would break and rip and tear.
And I'd be the first in line.
4 Months, 11 Days (Ibid.)
I was alone within the most private of all places. I had always been curious as to what may have existed behind that door, and finally the knowledge was mine for the taking; Rarity had allowed me into her Inspiration Room. She was still cleaning herself up in the bathroom, but I imagined that she would be quick – it was a bold move indeed to let me into the room without supervision, and I did not believe that she would allow me to have free-access to roam for long. For a little while, however, the interior of her world was mine to gaze upon, as long as I restrained myself from touching anything. Thankfully, I had received no warning about looking upon her great trove of treasured possessions, and I found myself doing just that.
It was truly mesmerising how organised chaos could be perceived. To me, the room was the direct antithesis to Rarity's normal argument of cleanliness; here she allowed materials to fall with reckless abandon, pooling in masses on the carpeted flooring. There were machines dotted about in no particular order; some for sewing, others for embroidering, and some devices that were entirely foreign to me. The machines were complicated and used only by those of a dexterous hoof. Comparatively, I knew very little of the textile trade. Quite amusing, given my state of employment for the last half a year or so. Nevertheless, one skill that I did possess – and had, in my mind, always possessed - was the ability to identify a true treasure worth protecting. Rarity's Inspiration Room, although distinctly disorganised, was the sort of haven where she could truly express herself without fear of external judgement, which indeed made it a place of unparalleled significance. I mused as I stood there in appreciative wonder, contemplating if I was the only pony other than herself that had ever entered such a place; and, although I may have been incorrect, it was an assumption that I felt comfort in entertaining.
I did not know where to begin, but found myself approaching a desk that had various charts and papers splayed out upon it. Rarity had been drawing out sketches of her various creations; I did not recognise what I saw as anything that had been available on the shop floor, and thus assumed that it formed part of a special order. There were other items on the desk – a small trinket box; a miniature potted plant – but I was drawn to a letter instead, for it was the only thing on the desk not in a state of disarray. It had been neatly placed in the center. I looked towards the window, as it was darker in that room than I would have assumed during the early morning; there was a blind, but by the looks of things it seemed to have been closed for some time – there was a thin coating of dust upon it – and I had read in the Guide to Baroque Attire that dresses could shrink in the sun. It was a bizarre notion, but I thought it best to avoid opening the blinds; for Rarity had clearly kept it shut by her own accord, and to do so would ruin the elusiveness of the room and open it up to external eyes.
Instead, I moved a hoof towards a lamp on the desk. It was an interesting sort of lamp that struck me as being particularly odd, as it was a dated contraption; it was very similar to the devices that had once been present at my estate in Trottingham, but I had replaced after being warned that they were commonly regarded as being a fire hazard. Oil lamps were dangerous, as the substance fuelling them was in itself highly flammable; a poor choice when lighting a flame. It seemed unusual for Rarity to have such an old and unsafe source of light in her most prized room, and I decided it would be best to let her know when the timing was right. Warning her might just one day save her life. It would, certainly, save her dresses from the potential fire that could start.
Having no other option of shedding light on the letter, however, I twisted the fragile dial on the outside of the lamp and allowed the oil to drip. I manoeuvred the filament within and flicked the small switch that created the necessary spark. It took a few attempts, but soon a healthy glow surrounded me, the heat from within pulsing comfortingly. I glanced over the letter: it had been written by Mr. Orange, as the signature at the bottom inferred. I read the first sentence or two, which amounted to a giant formality that provided little revelatory information. Before I had the chance to delve further, however, the knob of the door twisted behind me, and I knew that Rarity would be entering. I stood up to face her, turning towards the delightful mare. She had cleaned herself up – her hooves were no longer muddy – and she had decided to dress up for the occasion. Her dress was a dark-blue act of reserved extravagance; the sort that other ponies could in no way hope to wear without seeming garish, but one that inarguably suited Rarity. She looked at me timidly enough, brushing her front hoof back and forwards against the carpet.
"So... how do you like it?" she questioned me, her voice aching. I struggled to deduce if she was talking about her dress or the room itself. I resigned myself to the latter, looking around the room once again and taking in my immediate surroundings. It was still dark, but upon reflection I could see more of value within that room than upon her entire shop floor down below.
"It's incredible," I answered in wide-eyed envy, doing my best to absorb everything for her sake. She smiled and raised a hoof to the wall, pressing a small button that had eluded me; the room lit up with a series of multi-coloured glass lights dotted about, rendering the oil lamp somewhat obsolete.
"Why not just use the light switch?" she grinned, hinting towards the oil lamp. I chuckled and turned the dial down, extinguishing the flame to the best of my ability. She watched my actions studiously, making sure that I correctly put the flame out. When she was satisfied she penetrated me with her seductive blue orbs. "I am very glad that you like my inspiration room," she said, taking a step towards me. She seemed oddly awkward in how she was carrying herself. "It is important to me that you like it."
"I do," I responded, gulping a little. There was suddenly a different mood between us both; it was as if she was hesitant to ask me something. She shuffled a little closer and I smiled, deciding to make the job easier for her. "Why not show me around?"
Well, she was incredibly elated that I had requested that. She took me by the hoof and pointed out all of the different styles of dress and materials that she had used. It was more than I could possibly understand and retain, but I did my best to nod along with her words and comment when it seemed appropriate to do so. "Using gems in dresses is difficult," she said as she directed my gaze to a special gown laced with emeralds. "It can be difficult to incorporate them into a design without making the finished product look overly garish." I smiled, reaching out to touch the material. She batted my hoof away with her own, scolding me with a shake of her head. "Remember, you aren't to touch anything in here," she warned. "I am most certainly serious." I was concerned that it was something that I had done, but, as usual, she picked up on my sensitivity towards her comment and gave a little sigh. "It is nothing personal," she said, "I just have very specific rules that must be enforced. You know this of me by now."
It was true that I did know of Rarity's rules. She prided herself in the great clarity of such personal laws, and she broke them sparingly. She was to be adored and, at the same time, respected; but, on occasion, it was possible to find frustration in her meticulousness. Of course, it was not a quality that I could come to despise about her; the rules that she followed governed her every conscious movement and shaped the refined pony that she was. If she would lose her fortitude in enforcing such rules I would fail to give her the immense respect that she deserved; her perfect nature required perfection in every area relating to her.
"I do know it," I said, "and I apologise for breaking the rules."
I would be punished, one day. She spent a great deal of time showing me around the room, and I feared that she would run out of things to say. However, by the time she eventually declared her tour as over, it was lunch time and beyond as my stomach dictated. She took a seat at the desk and I upon the floor, looking up at her as we continued our conversation.
"You have a lot of designs here that I haven't seen," I said. "Are they prototypes?"
She shook her head, resting it against the back of the chair. "No, but most of them will be in circulation eventually. I am on the verge of signing contracts that prevent me from selling them in Ponyville."
"Who has instigated such contractual obligations?"
"The ponies that want to buy my talent," she said, sighing a little. I watched as her eyes closed, although there was no danger of her falling asleep.
"What's wrong?" I questioned.
"It is this business with Mr. Cross and Mr. Orange," she admitted. "I am struggling to reach a decision pertaining to them both."
"This is about who to work for, right?"
"To work with," she corrected me, raising an indignant hoof. "I would be working with them, not for them."
"I apologise."
"That is indeed the problem," she continued. "I cannot decide. My heart and mind want different things."
I blinked, sitting up a little. "What does your mind keep telling you?"
"To work for Mr. Orange," she mouthed. "It would be better for my career. Mass-production is an integral part of mass-popularity."
"Well, you wanted to be famous, didn't you?" I queried. She took a moment to respond with little more than a nod. "So what's the problem?"
"My heart."
"Your heart is telling you something else?"
"My heart is telling me that it would be a bad idea. My heart beats faster and puts me into a cold sweat when I hear of Mr. Orange's methods. My heart quivers when I think of other ponies replicating my designs. My heart is worried for the future."
I stood and approached her. There was a rule in place in the Inspiration Room, but it was a rule that I was not willing to follow any longer. I reached a hoof out to touch her, stroking it through her mane. She tensed but for a fleeting second, relaxing to my actions almost instantly, allowing me to smoothly brush her back. Given the contented sigh that followed, I deduced that I had successfully found the special point once again that relaxed her.
"What is your heart telling you, Rarity?" I whispered into her ear. She shuddered a little, pulling closer to my touch.
"I am not sure what to do," she spoke. "I am scared that either choice will ultimately be a bad one."
"Fearing the future is natural," I said. "Part of the future is acknowledging the mistakes that we will undoubtedly make. It doesn't matter which you choose, or if you decide to avoid signing any contract whatsoever."
"Why?" she asked, opening a single worried blue eye, watching me intently. I looked down upon her, standing beside her delicate form as the protecting guardian that I would always be.
"You have all the time in the world to make your decision," I explained. "If you make a mistake, it can be undone through time. The only way to succeed is to learn from the mistakes that you make."
"But what if I cannot afford to make this mistake?" she whimpered. "What if I only have one chance?"
I lowered my head to brush against her own. "If that's the case, then the most important thing, Rarity, is to remember the mantra of survival."
"Which is?"
"Life goes on."
A felt a tear roll from her cheek, for it brushed against my own. I gathered it up and used a free hoof to lightly draw circles upon her back. She exhaled deeply, turning towards the letter.
"Mr. Orange is requesting an immediate response," Rarity said. "I have been given a short amount of time to decide what I wish to do."
"Time is irrelevant," I said, glancing at the letter that was causing Rarity so much trouble. "Just this once, why not do what feels natural?"
"What is natural any more?" she questioned quizzically. "The lines have become blurred before me."
I placed a hoof on the letter, applying weight. She watched my actions with curious eyes, eager to see what I would do next. I placed my second hoof upon the letter and pulled them apart slowly, causing a tear to form at the top. She squealed a little, puffing out her bottom lip. "Do you want me to stop?" I asked, but she moved her head from side to side very slowly. I continued to pull both parts of the letter apart until there were two distinct strands. Beneath her desk was a small, otherwise empty bin which I dropped the pieces into. She watched them fall, closing her eyes tightly as they touched the base.
"That gives you a bit longer to think, doesn't it?"
"Yes..." she gulped, clearing her throat of uncleanliness. "He will be angry with me..."
"Anypony who would deprive you of time to evaluate your options and force you into making an incorrect decision doesn't deserve to remain in contact with you."
"What if he sends another?"
"There's nothing stopping you from doing the same thing."
She nodded slightly. "Would you do me a small favour?" she questioned. "Could you turn the lights off, please?"
I approached the door and did as she requested. The room sank into darkness, and she brought the oil lamp to life again to give her the modicum of light that she required from where she was perched. It was a dim glow with a minimal radius, but when I returned to sit at her side, it was wide enough for us both to sit within.
"I prefer working in the dark," she mouthed. "It allows me to think without distraction."
I nodded.
"Life goes on..." she mused to herself, and I frowned a little.
"What did you say?"
"I was just coming to terms with what you said," she explained. "That no matter what happens, life will continue to go on. Ponies come and go, but at the end of it all, life continues its course, even when we ourselves are gone."
"That's right."
"This is an important decision for me," she said, turning to face me with absolute tenacity. Her eyes were penetrating. "I cannot put it off forever. I do not have the time that you have spoken of. I shall be making my choice, and I will be sticking to it."
I felt during that moment that something in Rarity had changed. Rather than her indecisiveness having deceived her, I had the impression put upon me that she had somehow made some form of resolve. Whether it was my words that caused it was difficult to establish, although often it was my voice that gave her own meaning. She had concerned me with her own concerns, but her insistence on denying the sins of procrastination any longer spoke volumes about her state of mind. To follow the heart is entirely wise, for the palpitation of truth is the grandest prize; and had I been the loving force that I claim to be, I would have put her out of her misery. But to give in now was her utmost frustration, for a charmed heart is prone to abortion; to dim the shine would betray the mind, and so to pursue her dream she was hopelessly resigned. Now that every choice in life has its price, her own decision would be her greatest sacrifice.
"I did not yet tell you why I call it my inspiration room," she said, breaking the morose tension that she had created. "It is because within this room I keep anything that inspires me."
"Like what?" I asked matter-of-factly, understanding that there was some revelation that she wished to impart. She paused for a moment and let out a deep breath.
"Things that remind me of happy times," she said. "And a book of ideas like no other." She directed my eyes towards an unassuming tome among many larger, grander books. It was old, but well-read; the pages had been dampened with a faint yellow crust, but the words were of absolute importance. "This book was written many years ago by a relatively unknown pony," she explained, opening the pages and breathing in their spicy musk. "I have used it since I was little, making notes and annotations around the outside of my dreams. The author left blank pages at the back, but I quickly filled them in. Now I write around the borders and edges of the pages. It is where I keep my greatest ideas."
I looked upon a single page of the book, for Rarity was understandably possessive of it. It was, as she had implied, adorned with her own ideas for designs, all of which blew my mind, for none were available to ponies upon any market that I knew of, and each suggestion was the pure product of unadulterated inspiration. Such was the magnitude of what I saw, that she closed the book rather sharply, slotting it away once more. "Mr. Orange may have some sketches," she said softly, "but he will never have the mind that created them, even should I come to work with him. These ideas must stay here forever. And, should I lose sight of them, I entrust them to you." Her faith in me was well-decided, for I imprinted the location of the book on my mind, and said no more about it for a while, as I saw that Rarity was ready to show me more of the secrets of her room, and, at that moment in time, I had not yet understood the significance of the text, for my thoughts were directed towards other things.
She reached a hoof under the desk, using her magic to levitate a key towards her that had been looped around a nail on the wall. It was dark, but her magic kept everything suitably visible. She clicked the key into a deep drawer beneath the desk, opening it and digging her hoof inside. "Here is the issue of the Rococo Report that first featured me," she fumbled, "and tickets to the Symphony of Seven Paladins."
I had had no idea that she had kept all of these items. It was more than I had in my possession to remind me of her. She smiled when her hoof touched something in particular, bringing out a small box. It was familiar to me; a black casket with 'The Glass House' written upon it. I had thought that she had entirely forgotten about my gift to her on her birthday. In actuality, it seemed, she had been preserving it here the entire time. "I adore the sapphire tiara," she gulped. "I apologise if I have not shown you my true gratitude. I truly believe that it is too special to be worn. But it inspires me. Knowing that it is here, right beneath my eyes, reminds me of the effort that you went to in purchasing it for me."
I blinked as she opened the box, revealing that it was indeed the tiara that I had bought for her. "Forever it will remain with me here," she said, lifting her hoof to her heart. "Ever since you bought it for me my work has improved immeasurably, and all of the contacts that I have made have found immense satisfaction in it. I owe that to you."
I was somewhat speechless, for I had feared that my gift had been overshadowed by others. It had been wrong of me to doubt Rarity; she knew what was important and what truly mattered.
"It gets me thinking," she continued. "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here now as I am." My eyes darted towards her, suddenly quite worried. The Rarity before me was beautiful but tired; she retained her natural flare, but she was working beyond her capacity. "I owe you everything to be here now," she said. "I would not change a thing."
And perhaps Rarity was in a state of chaos at that moment, but as she always insisted, chaos could be organised, and her maligned line of work would only be temporary. Everything that had happened was my doing, but it was because of me that Rarity's name was on the map. Ponies from far and wide now knew of her; the current state of affairs was a natural sacrifice that had to be made. "Thank you for spending this time with me," she sighed, but I knew that she was not speaking only of this day; I smiled graciously, for it was no great feat of charity by me that I had made such an investment.
She watched me for a moment too long. She had caught herself off guard and turned to her desk once more. "I have some things to finish," she explained. "Would you be so kind as to open up the shop?" She twisted the dial on the lamp to set the light into rhythm once again.
It may have been a fleeting moment, and the chance of me entering such a place again was scarce. Already I sensed that she wanted me gone, but not out of hatred. I turned to leave, elated that she had treasured memories regarding us both. Should I ever have doubted that she cared for me, I now knew exactly where to look.
"Be careful with that lamp," I said as I approached the door. "Those things can be dangerous when lit. Entire buildings can go up in flame."
"Thank you," she replied dubiously. I turned on the main system of lights, forcing her to turn off the dated contraption. She seemed to oblige this. "In a few days we'll go on our trip together," she smiled as I slipped through the doorway, leaving her Inspiration Room behind. "Just you and me."
Just me and her. As happy as could be.
0 Months, 22 Days
"Please... stop crying."
Stop.
If only we could govern our actions in such simple terms. To stop doing something – to cease to engage in a particular practice – is often a lot more difficult than it seems. We become addicted to certain rituals and practices that prevent us from backing out. I had read that this was explained in psychological terms through Models of Investment. When we are neutral towards something, we have the objective ability to either commit or to withdraw. There is no bias one way or the other; and when we encounter others, we can choose to let a meeting last a minute or an hour through conscious decisions that we have control over. If we choose to withdraw, life goes on much as it would in a separate course of actions; further events transpire and other ponies enter our lives. We can choose to associate with them and invest, or, as in the previous example, we can go on without concerning ourselves. However, if we choose to invest, then we move further up upon this Model of Investment. As we ascend higher, our ability to withdraw becomes stunted. It is far more difficult to walk out of something that one has invested greatly in; the consequences are too grave and colossal. Some choose, therefore, to avoid investing, as it prevents the inevitable backlash when investment fails. I had always viewed these types to be callous, but it turns out that Detachment and Wisdom are not too far apart from each other.
This model can be applied to almost any situation, although it works especially well for relationships where commitment and investment can be measured in how we feel about others. However, this is not to say that it is an exclusively relationship-based model. It is, in many cases, an applied business model as well. If we invest financially, or in terms of time and effort, in a particular business or career choice, then it becomes almost impossible to back out the further in one falls. Helping hooves may be outstretched from time to time in an attempt to help, but those ponies that are unable to stop even when they are urged to do so are proud and unable to accept advice. No matter how much we try and save them, some ponies don't want to be saved. No matter how much it hurts those around them, some ponies continue regardless. They cannot stop, and they never will stop. Not until there is nothing left.
This home is bereft. Every night I follow the same ritual. I go in, I sit, and I walk out. All the while I contemplate where exactly I exist on the Model of Investment. I first thought that I was quite high up, and for a brief while I believed that I had fallen down immeasurably. Recently I was on the rise again, until I walked out. Her words were spoken with such disdain earlier that day. She had said, "So go," in the fiercest refrain. It was painful to be in there when she was like that. But things had calmed now. The calm before the storm, I perceived it to be. I knew what would happen to Rarity. She was a ghost in a machine with a battery in her leg, impaled on an iron grate of shrapnel disguised as a bed. And I remember that last night vividly, for it was horrific and terrifying, and after it passed she was dead.
It was late, as I saw it, for the street lamps had been switched on. I had checked myself out and torn the band off of my hoof, for it was customary to do so and no longer appropriate for me to stay at the hospice. The machines had scared me away. I had gone back to Ponyville to check on the shop. All was fine as I saw it: no letters and no slices of birthday cake. But it was all so pale and alone. I had walked up the stairway slowly, shivering as I stepped upon the top floorboard. I must have been floating, for the first time to my knowledge it did not howl. I entered the Inspiration Room. It had not been used for some time. I approached the oil lamp, flicking at the dial. It would have been so easy to burn the place to the ground. I caressed it with my hoof until it burst into light, but my better judgement caused me to keep the flame at a reasonable size. I knew exactly where she kept the key, now, and I slipped it into the lock of the desk without trouble. I spent a while in the relative darkness, touching the various items in the drawer. It was a collection of memories. I felt the smoothness of the cover of the Rococo Report issue that had started it all. I lifted it to the desk and observed the front cover. There was a faceless being. It was unnerving. I flicked through and settled on the article regarding Rarity.
"Ponyville is home to lots of rural charm, but none is more charming than a small, unassuming building called Carousel Boutique. Within the four walls of this converted loom, one might stumble upon the humble beauty known as Rarity."
How outdated this edition now was. How their opinions had changed in less than a year. I continued.
"Who is Rarity, I hear you ask? Rarity is a generous and loving pony, who embraces friendship as much as fashion. She always has time for her friends, as close sources inform me. She spends much of her free time dressing to impress and fashioning wonderful dresses and scarves for her closest companions. There is no challenge too great for Rarity, and her talents are multi-faceted; she has a love for the arts, enjoying attending festivals and musicals, and is a talented singer. She is also incredibly close to her family, especially her younger sister, who both share a bond that holds no secrets. More-so, however, are her personal creations, with her dazzling dresses of ornate extravagance being utterly without peer. Have you ever heard of the saying that no two snowflakes are alike? If not, I tell you now that it is scientifically proven to be the case, and Miss Rarity's excellent works prove that originality prospers in Ponyville right now; you have honestly seen nothing like what awaits you there. Woven together like an artisan spider fashioning its web, there is a magic at work in these creations that has made Rarity of Ponyville the next big thing. Rarity's Radiant Rambunctiousness – the latter word coined by me; use it and you shall be sued – can be experienced by any pony with any sense of fashion and style. But don't just take my word for it! Go to Ponyville today, immediately, post-haste, and see what I mean. Bring bits; you won't be leaving without ponying up some cash and showering her with it.
Miss Rarity's designs on the Gazette-o-meter score an incredible *****/***** - SMOKING HOT!"
I turned up the oil lamp a little higher. The days spoken of in the article of many months ago now had faded into obscurity. Gazette's powerful prose had been suitably objective back then; how awful that he now wrote at the behest of one most lamentable. To think that I had purchased a gift for Rarity – the sapphire tiara in the drawer beneath my nose – from that foul Mr. Cross. He was the house that catered to the glass, and whatever sucker had made that tiara, it wasn't Rarity. Just looking at the box with the thick silver lettering made me nauseous, for there was nothing that I despised more than thinking of the stallion behind it. He was suffering, as the newspapers dictated, but he barely knew what suffering was; his daughter would be the one to pay for his crimes, haunted as she was by the ghost of her mare-mother.
There were newer items in the depths of that drawer: trains ticket stubs bound for Manehattan and a little diary, the last entry of which had a large tick drawn inside it beside the comment, 'All the way and back again'. For the longest time I had been curious about the white stick with the sweet aroma. I still could not pinpoint its relevance, for it was an event that I no longer had any memory of. Rarity had kept these items because, to her, they had a greater meaning. Now that she was without them it pained me, but she had not requested them, even when I had suggested it. She wanted them to stay within the old converted loom, alongside her special book, which she frequently inquired about the safety of. Treasured relics, she had said, were best left in captivity.
I missed her as I fumbled through our memories. Something compelled me to return to the hospice, for even then I knew that that night was significant. I never usually made two trips, but I guess you could say that I felt that something bizarre had overcome me that night. I am not one to believe in the supernatural, but I do now believe in at least minor forces that guide us to be at the right place at the right time. And time that night wanted me to be back at the hospice. It is a difficult notion to comprehend, and I in no way assume the role of divine providence. Neither do I truly believe that a message had been sent to me by a greater being. It was as if Rarity and I had our rhythm, two beats for two white bands, and that during that night the rhythm was inconsistent. I positioned the items back in the desk drawer, locking it tightly and placing the key back where it belonged. I wrapped myself up and departed for the hospice. I found myself running towards an empty hallway. The night-shift receptionist seemed curious that I had reappeared. She branded me with the white seal of visitation. It was almost entirely blank.
Rarity's room was empty, save for the magic-less unicorn fighting for air.
She was barely awake, but stirred as soon as I entered. "...You came back..." she said, gulping in disbelief. I stood there in the shaking doorway. "Stop crying," she added in an exhausted voice. "Don't... make me... send you away again."
I approached her, I sat, and I wiped my tears away.
I gripped her hoof tightly.
"You can't stop me from being here any more than you can stop me from crying," I stuttered. "We made it this far, Rarity. We can keep going."
She had survived longer than the doctors had predicted. There was no end in sight.
"I... am tired..." she spoke in a whisper, shaking her head slowly. "I am tired of... waking to the sound of dirt. I am asphyxiated by the pain in my throat brought about by suffocation. I... detest the emptiness in my stomach and the numbing of my hooves. I am nothing of what I once was..."
"Rarity –"
"And when... you cry... it makes me follow your example. It... reminds me too vividly of what awaits me. When you cry, your tears become my own... but while you recover, my pain is set in stone. Please... stop crying. For my sake..."
"I can't," I said, trying my best to hold back those despised tears. "I can't stop what comes naturally."
"...Then... you should not be here... for the end."
"I can't stop what comes naturally," I repeated, "and what comes naturally to me is protecting you."
"The only thing... that I need protecting from..." she mouthed, "is you..."
Her words were vengeful.
"I am here... because of you..." she gasped. "I am here because... you said... I should follow my dreams. You promised me the world but gave me... only death."
I shook my head. "I didn't promise you anything!"
"If I had... not taken your advice..."
"You would be a pony with no name."
"I am a... pony with no name."
There were two ponies within that room who knew that I was the one to blame.
"What have... I got to show for anything?" she grunted. "I have... nothing. I have nothing left."
Her pillow was drenched as she tried to sit, staring directly into my eyes with her penetrative imposition. "You... took it all. My life... in Ponyville. My friends and family... my work... it is all gone... and so will you be soon..."
"You don't mean that."
"I... do..." she cried, her body shaking uncontrollably. "You... you have to leave me now."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I... decided... that tonight would be my last..." she wept. "I was... ready to die. You weren't... supposed to come back."
"Rarity!" I shouted. "You can't give up on life!"
"...I have already given up on life... for it has given up on me..." she panted. "I knew... that if I closed my eyes and slept... by the morning I would have found peace. But you... want me to... suffer and prolong my... pain." She was aching to speak such words now. The pain was excruciating, so I had been told by Tawleed, and it was numbed only partially by all of the drugs that he could stuff down her throat.
"I want to prolong your life..." I explained.
"My life is now worthless..." she argued. "You... have to let me go..."
But it was an impossible request. To let go of her hoof was to allow her to die. I could not possibly allow it to happen; I would be murdering the pony that I loved. It was true that I was in love with her, and that I had been for many months; I was here now out of love and adoration, not out of spite and obsession. My bottom lip trembled. She was pulling away from me, weakly making her hoof retreat. I gripped tighter, hurting her. There was no more time to keep my teeth behind my tongue.
"Rarity... I..." I growled with determination, my breath clinging to her face.
"Don't..."
"Rarity!"
"Don't... say it..."
"I lov–"
"Stop!"
Her tears exploded from her weak blue orbs. She wailed and howled, lifting her free hoof up to catch the tears as they fell. "You cannot... say it..." she said aggressively – desperately – with new power in her voice. "Do you think that I do not already know?"
"Rarity..."
"You cannot say it," she repeated, gagging on her words. "It is too hard to hear it and to respond. I cannot do it to myself or to you. I cannot."
She was more frightened then than I had ever seen before.
"It isn't fair..." she wept. "It isn't fair for us to end like that. Our story... isn't ever going to be... what you want it to be. There is... no happy ending. And if you... say those words... we have lived... a tragedy."
She moved her hoof up to my face. She touched my cheek softly. Her hooves were numb and weak and thin, but her touch was still her own. I knew that behind it, for the first time since I could remember, was the real Rarity.
"I cannot... tarnish everything... by making it so. As things are now... we are two ponies... who met at a terminal... from which we would embark to greater places. We made one another shine in our own special way. Equestria... may not remember us when I am gone... but you will live on. And I... will die happy, forever in your memory."
"Rarity..."
"That is just how it has to be."
Her hoof touched my mouth. She stopped me from saying any other words. What she had said was a thin veil of sense and reason among a chaotic series of months, and as much as I wished to object, the strength to do so no longer existed within me. I released my firm grip on her hoof, but she kept it there now without force.
"Don't be... sad..." she said. "Don't... dwell on the past. What is done... is done. The past cannot catch up to us now."
"Letting you go is the hardest thing that I will ever have to do," I said. "Everything will be meaningless and empty without you. I can't go back to the boutique knowing that I won't see your face every time I hear the bell ring... or have you sneak around the back and surprise me... or hear the comforting sound of the floorboard at the top of the stairs to tell me that you're awake."
"Darling," she said, her voice fit to break. "You haven't heard those sounds... for months now. Your memories are confused. The present day... has been like this for as long as I can remember.
"Think back," the unicorn whispered. "Are things... really as good as you remember them to be? You recall the best memories... but it was not always so."
Perhaps demonising herself was the only way that she felt that she could ascertain the balance in our relationship once more. Maybe she just wanted to soften the blow.
"Every relationship that comes to an end, no matter what the circumstance, has its reasons," Rarity then spoke, deep in thought. "As much as we may regret the divorce, every decision is made by a benevolent force... and every outcome is mediated by everything before it... and every ending starts a new beginning... I am sure of it."
"Where did you hear that?"
"I learnt it over these past few months," she responded. "Death is not the end... but the natural terminal where we wait to board."
"And what comes after?"
"I don't know," Rarity whispered, closing her eyes for the last time. "But whatever it is, I await it. You'll live on, and so will I. We'll meet again in some shape or form... it's true." She paused. "Because you need me. And I... need you."
If it could have ended there, I would have captured that moment forever.
Maybe we would meet again in a new life, under different circumstances. Perhaps our end was the beginning of something else. But as I sat there with her, tracing lines of fortune across her hoof, I found myself wanting nothing more than to go with her. For the future is defined by uncertainty, and this extends to death as much as life. The greatest mystery is what lies beyond the unknown, in territory uncharted by mortal minds. Rarity was my special little pony, the likes of whom I adored and required. But as she lay there in her dying days, my faith in us expired. It had all been a dream; a dream that was crashing apart. And Rarity's pain existed between us both and the slowing of her heart. I tugged at her mane and bit into her skin, and cried my tears of missing her upon her ivory form. I heard the machine channel a beep, and another and one more. She lifted herself very slightly and hinted at her pillow. Beneath it was the note that she had written weeks before. She fell against me in defeat and the note floated to my hoof. Her last breathless words were that I read it just this once. Her body had had enough.
Doctors and nurses eulogized our tale on that day. I will not say that Dr. Tawleed did anything other than his most professional of duties; but his tears were real, and I knew that he loved her fiercely. He spoke a different language to me, one that I could not understand as I watched from the front-lines. It was a language of appliances and tools, medicines and machines. He nailed a mask across her face, which forced air down into her lungs. The machine was fit to explode, its cryptic message accelerating, speeding, racing, repeating. Tawleed continued when the others had given up, pressing her chest and screaming words of frustration; and I joined in, for our combined efforts would be enough to save her.
But the patient died before my eyes, and there's little more that I can say on that. Her hoof refused to let go, even when her white band had forsaken her and fallen to the floor. And when her body fell cold and I lost my mind, and cried inside her beneath the single-note siren-song, her hoof still remained there, reaching out to me, enticing me to a place that I could not yet follow. The terminal was vacant, with hundreds of seats for Rarity and me. And she would be smiling, always watching from those deep blue orbs, sailing ships with masts so tall.
Young meetings, early in the youth of it all.