//------------------------------//
// Hospice - Epilogue  
// Story: My Little Pony - Hospice 
// by Cudpug 
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Recovery is an impossible demand. Some things are too important to overcome. Grieving for a loved one is not a stage that we go through, but a channel that carves itself into our hearts and minds. And although this channel can be filled, it never truly caves in. But let it be known that this was all a nightmare that I chose, and the weight of the damage that I carry with me is now the cross that I willingly bear. The day that I had heard the bell chime in the old loom for the first time, I brought it upon myself to face the burdens that we wove. I have been left with these burdens, but none are so grave as to make me regret what the both of us had together inside one another.

Love comes in many different forms, but as a beautiful unicorn once told me, true love is best left unsaid; it is the prolonged force that keeps us bound together and grounds our hooves in place. To be devoted to another is not the result of a particular combination of perfumed words, but the state of absolute being that we acquire when we find a commitment worth committing to. To this day, regardless of what I may come to tell you happened next, I never once allowed Rarity to leave my thoughts. When she strayed I feared and prayed, and only when she came back could I think, for her permanent mark on my world had been made with the darkest of ink.

Her ink had been used to write me a letter. She had to wait until the very end before I could see it, for it contained information that she would have been unable to approach. I shall say little about it, for it is not for the consumption of any ears other than my own. It revealed what she really thought of me – things that she had told the doctor when I had been absent – and it sought to leave me with the closure that I required during the healing process. It is of absolute importance that the letter was written evidence that Carousel Boutique now belonged to me, as well as everything that she had left behind. I had been chosen as her successor, and the old loom would linger on in my name.

Almost ten months had passed since we first met, and losing her was my heaviest-paid debt. But to those that think I was counting down to the death of my beloved, let it be known; to do so would make our narrative into a tragedy, and that was the last thing desired by my Rarity. It took me until the end to understand, but she had had no desire to make our tale a lover's demise. Her intention, out of perfection, was always to remember me for the good inside, and I, in her, saw her beauty amplified. For I was the pony that believed in dreams, and reached a hoof of guidance out to her; and she was the eager artist, desperate to please who never dared stop and fall. Let this be a lesson to all; to categorise ourselves as lovers is a coward's way of describing the weight and brevity of our feelings. We were something beyond a practice, and required one another. Our marriage of existence belied the title of 'lover'.

What I am now counting down to – what I was always, truly, waiting for – you may never know, but fruitless optimism decided the date that I set for us. Rarity was never to live to the end, but maybe I foolishly thought that if I went back and re-told the tale of our fortunes, I would have the power to grant her new life and stop what happened. I would have saved her if I could, but no matter what I gave and what actions I took, no investment was great enough to help her. When I tell this story again, I will seek to extend the date once more, for seeing our relationship on a page of increasing words somehow makes it seem as if we were together for a lifetime. But the age that I am now is not too different from that under which I first met her; and that I have already lost knowledge of her fragrance proves that I will forget her.

Life is a mystery, and without Rarity, I am left as a wanderer. The date by which I incited from the start may be one that I myself never reach; to set ourselves targets is to overachieve, and this is what took her from me, so I am resigned to believe. Contentment comes from finding order in chaos, wherever it may be; and true love exists without financial necessity. Whatever choices that I now come to make, do not judge me too severely; for I never contended to be anything but a pony with the time to give. For the ethos of life is to love and care, and through devotion and investment our story I share. I leave you now on a final thought, one that I pray you all observe. Rarity would have wanted it; it is what we both deserve.

As I once said to an old friend, now a pony with no name:

"Sometimes, just being there for somepony – giving without the necessity of getting something back – is worth more than money and fame."












Thus ends Hospice.

You may now remove your bands.