Twilight Sparkle lived the same way that she died: calm, collected, and covered in blood.
Rarity couldn’t blame her much for the blood though—it wasn’t her fault manticores were full of the stuff, nevermind the fact she cut quite a striking figure standing there drenched in a crimson that bled so starkly through the once-white fabric of her blouse.
The air around them tasted like copper.
The manticore was dead.
“Right,” Twilight said, and turned to Rarity. Her voice was level and unbothered, as if they were merely discussing the weather: cloudy with a chance of showers, especially for those in range of ruptured arteries! “Should we head back to the library now?”
Rarity shot the manticore’s body a pointed look, and then Twilight an even sharper one. “Like that?”
“Like what?”
“You— You know!” She gestured up and down. “Like that!”
They’d be the talk of the town if they returned looking the way they did, wouldn’t they? She, Rarity—the vampire, the dangerous one—and her, Twilight—the human, the victim—emerging from the Everfree a bloodsoaked pair? Nothing to see here! Don’t mind the mess; it’s not hers, I promise! She’s perfectly fine!
Ponyville would play hopscotch with conclusions, they would. Rarity refused to ever supply them chalk.
“We’ll go to mine,” she said instead, and crossed her arms for good measure. “You’d have eventually come to me to salvage what you’re wearing anyway; Celestia knows I’m the only one of our friends who knows or cares enough to get any sort of bloodstain out of fabric.”
“Oh.” Twilight wrinkled her nose. She reached one hand down to peel her soggy blouse from her stomach with a wet squelch. “Honestly, at this point I might as well throw these clothes out.”
“WHAT?!”
Rarity’s voice might have shattered glass, had they not been in the middle of the most feral and uninhabited forest known to monsterkind.
“Or, maybe Spike could burn them? I could ask.”
“No, no, no! A thousand times no!” In her shock Rarity couldn’t stop herself from trying to defend her case: flitting circles around Twilight; pulling at her sleeve here, her collar there; maneuvering behind her to take the yoke of her blouse between her fingertips and tug. “I can’t possibly let you destroy such a lovely shirt. The construction of it alone speaks to both the price and quality of its design! And your trousers”—she hooked one finger through a belt loop to turn Twilight back around—“barely caught any of it; plus blood is hardly ever an issue to clean from black, you know, and—”
“Rarity,” Twilight interrupted, now nose-to-nose with her and wearing the barest traces of amusement in her eyes, “if I say yes, can we start heading back?”
“Hm?” Rarity blinked. “Oh!” She removed her hand from Twilight’s hip and cleared her throat. “Well, I mean, if you do, then I suppose we can. We came for the manticore, and the manticore is dead, and so as long as ‘yes’ means you agree to not go waltzing through town in such a way as to paint me as some sort of woman-ravishing opportunist like that bastard Bluebl—”
“Rarity,” Twilight repeated, and nearly smiled. “Yes.”
It was hard to think thoughts sometimes, especially when exhausted, but it was also sometimes equally as hard to not think thoughts. Their trek back to the boutique had Rarity firmly in the latter category—Twilight didn’t seem in the mood for conversation, and that meant Rarity’s thoughts had nothing else to do but think.
...Mostly about Twilight.
Rarity knew she wasn’t alone in that regard, though. Their whole circle of friends, the entirety of Ponyville, and almost all of Celestia's court surely thought about Twilight Sparkle just as much. And who could blame any of them?
Who could blame anyone for being curious about the human who willingly lived in a town of monsters?
Well, if she truly IS one, Rarity thought to herself, then immediately wished she hadn’t. That was a pesky one; a thought her mind had planted the day she’d first met Twilight—nearly a year ago now, wasn’t it? It must have been, yes. The Summer Sun Celebration was just a month away.
She’d first met Twilight Sparkle the so-called human nearly a year ago, and yet in all the time since then Rarity hadn’t managed to shake off the suspicion that she wasn’t.
Because humans and monsters didn’t mingle much, of course. Humans didn’t trust monsters and their fangs and furs and feathers and other not-human traits, and monsters trusted humans and their magic just as much. Sure, they were civil, and no one went round shouting slurs at the other kind if they saw them in the streets—if they wanted to keep their reputation, they’d do it in private or preferably not at all—but with Ponyville as one of Equestria’s last remaining monster havens, Rarity couldn’t fathom why any human would stay for more than a moon.
(Unless, perhaps, that human wasn’t really one at all—)
Well, what could she even be, then? Rarity snapped at the voice in the back of her head. Not out loud; she was still with Twilight, after all. It bothered her to be so suspicious of a close friend, but oh did it bother her even more to not be close enough of a friend to know why.
She risked a glance at Twilight out of the corner of her eye. The stars and moon above them shone down cold, but bright. Moonlight cast Twilight’s profile in a rather fetching silver, Rarity found, then snapped her gaze back to the trail in front of them before she found anything more.
No visibly inhuman traits. Just like always, and like every time she’d checked before.
Perhaps a vampire, Rarity decided. Though, she didn’t put much confidence into her guess—she knew too well how to spot another of her kind; could too easily sense both bloodborne and turned alike.
Twilight Sparkle showed no signs and raised no flags. Vampire was a truly terrible guess.
She guessed it anyway.
Just in case.
“Here,” Rarity called down the hall. “These should fit.”
“Should?” Twilight called back. She stood in the boutique’s foyer wearing blood and uncertainty, too polite to walk her mess any further inside and too callous to care about the stench of gore sticking to her skin. She’d been able to walk through the front door without an invite, though that didn’t mean much—Rarity had surely invited her inside dozens of times before.
“It’s the best I have on hand,” she answered, knowing full well that everything else in her closet was too tailored to fit anyone else, and made her way back to Twilight with what she’d found. “We’re two different monsters, after all. People,” she quickly corrected. “Don’t take that the wrong way, though. I certainly don’t have the figure to wear what you’re wearing right now, you know.”
“You don’t have to be polite,” Twilight snorted, a smile in her voice but not on her face. “I’m pretty sure it’s impossible for anything to look bad on you.”
“But I can’t just say that about myself,” Rarity teased. “Though I certainly won’t stop you from saying it.”
She passed the neatly-folded pile in her arms over to Twilight: a plain, slightly oversized blouse she sometimes wore as a nightshirt, and a pair of trousers she’d last worn three New Year’s resolutions ago. They were only as close as they’d been in the Everfree, but the scent of blood seemed even stronger inside. Rarity could hardly keep her fangs from forming at arm’s length; Twilight still remained focused—and fangless—nearer to the manticore’s blood than her own.
“You know where the washroom is, don’t you?” Rarity managed.
(Of course she knew. Rarity had put her up for a night just the month before.)
“Mhm,” Twilight nodded, then slipped one bloodied, muddied loafer off after the other on top of Rarity’s doormat and went to the bathroom to change.
She was alone for a bit after that, save for the few fleeting seconds she’d taken to knock on the bathroom door and request that Twilight hand her the Outfit before she got into the bath. After all, she certainly wanted a good soak after that mess of a mission, and she hadn’t been the one who’d done all the heavy lifting—so if Twilight was going to take some well-deserved time to unwind, then Rarity thought she’d better get started on the Outfit in the solitary meantime.
Blood never did like to remove itself.
The motions were all too familiar; ones she’d had to perform not only for herself and the bedsheets she’d never buried with their corpses, but also for spilled wine on tablecloths and paint on Sweetie’s brand-new-everythings and the general mess and muck of life that came with following orders penned in dragonfire and sent directly from the Divine.
Rarity wrinkled her nose at that, and sat herself down beside the washbasin.
A year ago she’d been but a seamstress. Well, look at me now, she thought dryly, with all the bitterness of someone who’d gotten exactly what she’d wished for. She rolled her sleeves up to the elbow and spun the faucet on. Immediately the water heater sent its protests through the plumbing in response.
Hot water for both the washroom and the laundry room? Unforgivable.
She tossed in Twilight’s underclothes as the basin filled and clutched the bloodied blouse tight between two fists.
Her, Rarity, as one-sixth of some Plan that not only had her fighting ferals in the Everfree on a near-weekly basis, but also doing laundry afterward out of her own free will?
Unbelievable.
The basin filled. She turned off the tap, listened to the sound of running water tap-tap-tapping in what was surely a shower and not a bath, and set to work.
It was just as easy for Rarity to lose herself in chores as it was in anything else she set her mind to. On one hand, it was a blessing: time passed quickly, and she soon found she’d finished with everything except the dreadfully sullied blouse.
On the other hand, getting lost meant it was far too easy for Twilight Sparkle to scare her out of her skin.
“What should I do with my towel?”
Contrary to some humans’ beliefs, vampires did indeed have heartbeats. In that moment Rarity was certain hers had nearly jumped right out of her throat.
“Don’t do that,” she hissed, then twisted around to give Twilight the sternest of glares before answering, “And you can leave it by the sink. I’ll throw it in with the rest of my linens tomorrow.”
Twilight met her gaze with an all-too-familiar indifference. The towel in question lay draped over her shoulders like a cape. Her bangs were damp. They stuck to her forehead in a way that made Rarity want to run a comb through them once or twice. “The clothes fit me,” she said eventually and redundantly—redundant, because Rarity had already glanced over her clothing before she’d looked for the towel. The trousers were a bit too loose at the waist; too short in the leg, and the neckline of the shirt veered lower than it ever had on her. And, the half-length sleeves hardly reached—
“Your arms,” Rarity blurted out before her mind could catch up with her eyes and mouth. “What’s happened to them?”
“Hm?” Twilight blinked. “Oh,” she realized, and raised one bare arm up from her side so Rarity could see it better. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t seen them yet.”
Thin white lines marked her skin from wrist to elbow and then above. Rarity had thought them scars initially, but now with better light she could make out intricate geometry and script-like markings that could only have been intentional.
“I suppose you could call them tattoos,” Twilight continued, and flexed her fingers absently. The markings shifted slightly against her skin.
Can’t be a vampire, was Rarity’s first thought—they healed far too fast for even piercings, much to her disappointment. Then came her second thought: “Why?”
Instead of answering verbally, Twilight hummed under her breath and tipped her head to the side. Then, she gave the index finger of her extended hand a twirl, and suddenly a familiar magenta light lit up over the towel slung around her neck.
“It’s a human thing,” she explained. The towel rose from her shoulders and began to fold itself midair. “Well, a magic thing, really. We can’t just pull it from thin air.”
It gathered to halves, then quarters. And for the first time—because it was the first time Rarity could remember Twilight in a shirt without long sleeves—Rarity could see that the markings on her skin pulsed faintly with the very same magical glow.
Then the magic faded and the now-folded towel dropped gently into Twilight’s waiting hand. She held it out to Rarity, then hesitated. “This was kind of a pointless gesture.” Her brow creased. “It still needs to be washed. I didn’t really save you any work.”
Rarity snorted. She took the towel. “Darling, if I were human, I’d fold as many unwashed towels as my heart desired.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Why would being human have anything to do with that?”
“I can already fold towels by hand, Twilight,” she said, and resisted the urge to refold the one she’d just taken to emphasize her point. “I meant with magic. Just like you humans can.” A sigh escaped her lips before she could catch it, so she kept going: “You can’t fault a woman for being a bit envious of your kind’s natural inclination.”
Twilight’s brow somehow creased further at that. “It’s hardly natural.”
“Hm?”
“I— You know most humans can’t use magic like I can, right?”
That was news to Rarity. “...I didn’t,” she admitted, and sent a silent curse to her past self for making such an assumption. “Though to be fair, you’re the first and only human I’ve ever befriended. And as you probably know, when it comes to humans, us monsters aren’t exactly...” A memory of Twilight’s first day in Ponyville sprang to mind—more specifically, a memory of how Twilight’s normally-neutral expression had cracked to irritation when she’d skimmed some of the literature her new home held. “...accurate,” she finished lamely.
“Oh, I know,” Twilight agreed. Thankfully she seemed to relax a bit, and the furrow between her eyes faded back to a crease. “But, yes. Most humans go their whole lives without ever using magic.”
“Because they don’t get the opportunity to learn it?”
“Well, that, too, but...” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment Rarity thought her eyes looked much farther away than they should have. “Even if a human wanted to learn magic,” she said quietly, “they’d always have a threshold. It just varies from person to person.”
Rarity frowned, and tried to ignore the oddly nervous feeling twisting in her gut. “Yours must be quite high, then.”
“...It is.”
“After all, you beheaded that manticore with hardly the flick of your wrist! I’d say Applejack works harder chopping firewood than you do slaying those dreadful beasts.”
“If it looks easy,” Twilight said carefully; coldly, almost, “then I should probably consider a career in acting.” Suddenly the air in the laundry room turned electric; charged. “Because I promise you it’s not.”
Silence.
It held for a while, if not a bit longer than that. Then—
“I’m sorry,” Twilight mumbled. She exhaled sharply and ran one hand roughly down her face. “I—”
“No, I should be the one apologizing,” Rarity interrupted. She brushed the towel off her lap and got to her feet, taking just enough steps to put Twilight within arm’s reach but not any closer than that. “You must think me disrespectful for assuming that being good at something makes it easy.”
“You were just curious,” Twilight replied, her voice still quiet. “And... I know I don’t exactly wear my heart on my sleeve.” There it was again—that foggy, distant look that on anyone else Rarity would have called sad.
“You don’t,” she admitted, then took one step closer and tugged Twilight down for a hug. “But that’s not an excuse for me to trample on it. I’m terribly sorry.”
Twilight’s hands fumbled against her back, then gently squeezed. “Me too.”
Rarity held their hug a second longer than she should have before finally pulling away. “Do you have an idea of the time?” she asked, careful to move the subject away from magic, but not too far. “Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure Spike will worry if you’re not home by dawn.”
“Oh. Right.” Her gaze drifted around Rarity to land on the washbasin. “You don’t want me to stay until you finish?”
“I’m a vampire, Twilight, not a sadist. I won’t have you waiting hours for me to do laundry.”
“But—”
“I'll take it by the library when it’s done. Tonight at the earliest, I’d think—perhaps we could do dinner if I’m up in time. Does that work for you?”
“...That sounds nice,” Twilight managed, whatever protests she’d come up with never making it to Rarity’s ears. “Alright. How much do I owe you, then?”
“Pardon?”
“For the cleaning. I’ll need to send Spike to the banker today if you’re coming tonight.”
Rarity couldn’t stop a surprised laugh from leaving her lips. Emotions were such funny things; hard for her to handle and even harder for her to keep at hand. “I shan’t accept a single bit for it,” she said to the tail end of her laugh. “Just consider it a gift from me to you.”
As always, Twilight Sparkle remained calm and collected even while confused. “But why should you give me a gift?” she asked slowly, as if she’d somehow forgotten the very element Rarity now was blessed to bear.
Because you did all the work on the mission today, she could have said.
Because you let me save such a lovely outfit from a fire pit, she could have said.
Because you folded your towel, she never could have said, but nearly considered.
“Because you’re my friend,” Rarity said instead of anything else. She smiled with her mouth—not just her eyes—and put one hand on Twilight’s shoulder to guide her to the door. “I don’t think I need more of a reason than that.”
It was only later, when she turned it inside out to assess its sorry state, that Rarity noticed scorch marks in those same tattooed patterns seared into the lining of Twilight’s shirt.
vam·pire
[bloodborne]
1. a fanged nocturnal monster sustained through the consumption of mortal blood
2. not Twilight Sparkle
[turned]
1. a human cursed to vampirism by the bite of a mature bloodborne
2. also not Twilight Sparkle