//------------------------------// // philautia // Story: Love Languages // by evelili //------------------------------// Celestia’s hunting orders rarely required all six of them at once; most ferals were easy enough to deal with in their recommended pairs. Sometimes they’d have threes or fours, but always at least two. Pairs were the minimum to enter the Everfree, no matter how confident—like Rainbow—or competent—like Twilight—they were. But sometimes, when pairs just weren’t enough, they went as six. (Whenever one of their missions required full assembly Rarity couldn’t help but remember that fateful night nearly a year ago. She’d been just a seamstress, for hell’s sake! What a cruel future from Fate she’d found, borne on the wings of the court’s own chariot and disguised as a human who knew nothing but collected and calm.) Of course, for all the pomp and circumstance around full assembly, at certain times Rarity thought them a touch unnecessary. Multiple ferals? Quite reasonable. Massive, magic-resistant foes that no single prodigious human could hope to confront on her own? Also entirely fair. But a single Ursa Major? “It feels like a waste,” Rarity repeated to the remains of her audience. “I don’t see why she couldn’t have sent just me and Twilight to handle it.” Well, really just Twilight, but even she still needed to follow the rule of pairs. The three of them sat in the backroom of Sugarcube Corner: her and Twilight shoulder-to-shoulder on the little wooden bench between the pantries, and Pinkie perched on a three-legged stool she’d pulled from behind the flour sacks. Fluttershy and Rainbow had long since left—they hadn’t needed any patching up—and Applejack had headed out just a few minutes after she’d bandaged her shoulder. “But the letter said six,” Pinkie pointed out, and fixed Rarity with a curious, unblinking stare. “Are you saying we shouldn’t have listened to it?” “I—” Of course that wasn’t what she meant, but— “Orders are orders,” Twilight said sternly. She nudged her leg against Rarity’s; a bleeding-red reminder of why they were still stuck in the back room, then added, “Though, I think Rarity does have a point.” “Thank you,” Rarity huffed, and tore another strip of gauze off the roll with her teeth. Pinkie stared at them a moment longer before shrugging and straightening up on her stool. Her ears twitched once, twice—a telltale sign of nerves. “I mean,” she said slowly, “even with the rest of us there, you still got bit.” Twilight’s mouth tensed into an almost-invisible frown. “I did,” she said. “What of it?” “It’s just, maybe if we all weren’t there the way we were, that Ursa woulda got you even worse.” She hesitated. “Like, y’know. Bit your whole leg off, or, um, something else more important that you humans need to live.” Even if it wasn’t the most eloquent, the meaning behind Pinkie’s words rang true: if we weren’t there tonight, would you have died? (It was terrifying to see Twilight wear her own blood, and not a feral’s. It didn’t happen often, but that evening as Rainbow had prepared for another dive at the Ursa, and as Fluttershy had dragged a wounded Applejack to safety, and as Pinkie had shouted for Rarity to watch her left, suddenly there had been burning ozone and an electric crack and one calmly furious human materializing midair before the Ursa’s gaping maw. It bit down on her leg at the same time she thrust both hands against its starry brow and squeezed. And then suddenly the Ursa was dead.) “Again,” Twilight said coolly, “I’m fine. And I promise it’s not some sort of bravado—this sort of injury won’t ever come close to threatening my life.” And wasn’t that interesting? Rarity wanted to say, but didn’t. Humans were supposed to be terribly fragile, weren’t they? Why should Twilight Sparkle hold such confidence in herself; be willing to risk such surely-fatal injuries without even a hint of fear? ...What type of monster would also act in such a way? She let her thoughts wander against the backdrop of Pinkie’s response, and turned her attention back to Twilight’s leg. She’d cut off the leg of her trousers already—sadly too shredded to salvage—and disinfected the line of massive punctures near encircling Twilight’s thigh. (She hadn’t flinched at all, even when Rarity had switched out water for alcohol. As if fangs, chemicals, and caring hands all felt the same.) Still, though, she treated Twilight with the same careful motions any other feeling creature would have wanted. That I would have wanted, she noted idly. Not that she’d ever know if Twilight or anyone else was willing to do the same kind of care for her. Vampiric healing was such a shame in that regard. Her hands brushed across more of those barely-visible tattooed markings when she pulled the last of the wrappings taut, and it was only after she’d made sure everything was secure that Rarity decided to voice one of her many thoughts: “Does an injury like this cause problems?” Both Pinkie and Twilight turned to her—perhaps she’d interrupted them. Rarity hadn’t been paying them much attention, really.  “Problems?” Twilight replied. She glanced down to where Rarity’s hands rested atop her thigh, then back up to meet her gaze. “You mean, for my magic?” When she received a nod of confirmation, she echoed the motion with a shake of her head and said, “It’s not an issue. I’ve still got plenty left intact.” “But that bite cut clean across some of them,” Rarity continued. “You called them veins before. I wouldn’t think any sort of vein would appreciate such severance.” “What d’you mean, ‘severance’?” Two cloven hooves hit the hardwood, and suddenly Pinkie was there, peering down at Twilight’s bare leg and entirely invading Rarity’s personal space. “Huh! That Ursa really gotcha good, didn’t it?” Twilight scowled—well, as much as her expressionless demeanour would allow—and gently pushed Pinkie’s head away by her horns. “I’m fine.” “The same way Rarity’s fine?” “Darling,” Rarity reminded her, “I’ve been fine for the last twenty minutes.” “...Oh. Right, duh; of course you are.” Pinkie shot Twilight’s leg a solemn look and sighed, “Poor Rarity. Healing so fast that ol’ Pinkie here went and missed it.” Her ears twitched again, this time in the way that Rarity knew as an ear-to-ear smile. “Must be sort of boring, Twilight, don’t you think?” “It sounds convenient,” Twilight answered. “If I were a vampire, I suppose I could appreciate that.” “Ooh, that’s an idea—vampires kinda suit you, huh?” And, before Rarity could realize what was happening, Pinkie clapped her hands together and asked, “If you were a monster, Twilight, what type of monster would you want to be?” No! Rarity wailed silently. You can’t just ask her that! Because, what if Twilight truly answered? What if she dropped the act and revealed her not-human self and proved that all of Rarity’s guessing could have been solved with a single question all along? It was a silly, insignificant game that only she was playing, but hell if she wasn’t too invested to have it end. But thankfully—so thankfully—Twilight just shrugged her shoulders and replied, “I’ve never thought about something like that.” And of course, in typical Pinkie fashion, that answer then opened the door to a brand-new sort of guessing game; one so similar to the one Rarity had already started but this time with two players instead of one. So a vampire, Pinkie said again, but no, that wouldn’t do—Twilight may have appreciated their practical aspects, but she just as quickly listed off their detriments: the ever-present hunger, the impracticality of needing an invite into even a carriage, and of course the inescapable danger of the sun. Maybe a werewolf, Pinkie tried next, but again Twilight shook her head. She considered it if only for a second longer than the first suggestion, much to Rarity’s chagrin, but once again counted out traits she wouldn’t want—becoming a slave to the moon’s strict cycles of course being the largest strike against it. Then all sorts of inhuman monsters were struck down just as quick: harpies, dragonborn, centaurs, and even fauns, though that last one was apologetic enough that Pinkie didn’t seem to take it personally. Twilight made sure to emphasize her distaste was due to being quite accustomed to feet and skin and four appendages, and nothing more. Each of Pinkie’s following guesses were turned down as quickly as she could think of them, and while Rarity quietly listened to their playful back-and-forth, a guess of her own started bubbling at the back of her mind. Twilight knew quite a lot about monsterkind, even for a curious human.  Wasn’t there a certain type of monster that would also benefit from such detailed knowledge? ...Perhaps, one that might need to mimic the physical characteristics of a monster close enough so as to not ever be discovered. “Well,” Rarity finally chimed in, “if I weren’t a vampire already, I’d certainly like to be a changeling from how the two of you are talking.” Her gaze never left Twilight the entire time she spoke. “Perhaps I’d even try my hand at being human.” But Twilight’s reaction—or lack of one—didn’t give anything away. She simply raised her eyebrows a fraction of an inch and asked, “You’ve thought about it, then?” “Hm?” “About being human.” Her head tilted slightly, enough to shift her bangs and send a bit of her hair curving out over her shoulder. “Have you ever wanted to be one?” What a silly question. “Of course not,” Rarity replied at the same time Pinkie shook her head and chirped out a cheerful, “Nope!” Twilight tilted her head further to the side. “Really?” “I like being me,” Pinkie said matter-of-factly. “If I were human, that’d be a different me. And that’s not the same thing, y’know?” “Hm. I see.” That answer seemed enough for Twilight, at least. “And you, Rarity?” Rarity blinked. Suddenly, explaining her answer seemed more daunting than even the angriest Ursa Major in the world. “I mean,” she said slowly, “I can’t say I haven’t entertained the idea of magic. And of course I envy anyone able to survive in sunlight, but...” She hesitated. Why had she been so confident in her response? Why was she so certain that she liked being a monster; a vampire? Could I ever hate the negative aspects of myself enough to relinquish the positives? “...I suppose my answer is the same as Pinkie’s,” she realized. “I’m quite fond of the person—well, monster, really—I am. And of course my sense of self isn’t all inconvenient sleep schedules, or draining dry out-of-towners no one’s wont to miss. It’s my background; my identity, in a way.” It was the connection she instantly had with other vampires, even far removed from home, and the way that strangers could feel more familiar than all other monsters in the world. “I don’t think I could trade that for anything.” (She’d recognized herself in Fluttershy that fateful first night, long after the curtain had gone up and the stage had stayed bare and that calm, collected human had run out backstage door and toward the forest. She’d recognized herself in Fluttershy when blue lightning had severed air and too-close heads as a second human—no, former human—had appeared above the stage: the same panicked eyes and trembling hands and a fear so strong it strangled even screams. Perhaps she’d known then. Perhaps that had been why she’d grabbed a stranger’s hand and dragged her along to safety when she’d fled. They were sisters by bond, even if not blood, and even if later Fluttershy had clarified that her bond was only half. Rarity didn’t care. Whatever bond they shared was the reason they’d gotten out of that mess alive.) Twilight remained silent for a moment after her answer, and Rarity didn’t need expressions to tell she’d lost herself in thought. Then— “Monsters and humans must be similar,” she said to break the silence.  ...Oh? “Because, in the same way you both have never wanted to be human, I’ve never wanted to be a monster.” Her words were confident and calm as ever, but it was only then that Rarity knew they were true—not because Twilight Sparkle was a liar, mind, but because such a statement wasn’t one many humans could truly state. After all, what lambs didn’t wish they’d been born lions? What could prey ever do but hope to wake one day with claws for fighting back? “I don’t think most humans would agree with you,” Rarity said, careful to keep her voice even instead of accusatory. “Especially if your magical abilities are as out-of-the-ordinary as you’ve described.” A thought came to her, then, and she voiced it immediately: “Without magic, would you still be satisfied being human?” (Changelings had no pride in their identities. How could they, if they spent all their time as someone other than themselves?) She’d expected that Twilight would take some time to consider such a scenario—if not a good minute, then at least the same amount of time she’d taken to think about her and Pinkie’s answers just a moment earlier. But by the time the tail end of her question slipped past her tongue, Twilight had already dipped her head into a nod. “I think so,” she said slowly, and Rarity could hardly believe her ears. “Even without your magic?” “Mhm.” “Even,” she tried again, “if you weren’t anything but ordinary?” Twilight nodded. “Even then,” she said, then carefully shrugged her shoulders up and down. “Besides. That’s the best part of being human.” Pinkie’s eyes widened to nearly the size of saucers at that. “Being ordinary?” “That you get to make yourself extraordinary.”  Rarity could clearly hear the smile in Twilight’s reply—even if she didn’t wear one on her lips. It sounded like satisfaction personified, with perhaps a hint of pride, and if it were anyone else she might have laughed at the very notion that a human could be anything but ordinary or insignificant or weak, but— But she’s Twilight Sparkle, Rarity reminded herself. Her laughter died in her throat, and a sort of nausea rose from its corpse instead. Just how far away from human was the threshold of ‘extraordinary’? Her gaze dropped back to Twilight’s injured leg; back to those nearly-invisible veins and the wound she hadn’t felt, and a second question soon twisted into thought: And what would a human have to do to surpass it? It was so subtle that Rarity didn’t notice it until much, much later, curled half-asleep in satin sheets with thoughts of extraordinary humans coiled tightly round her mind. Because, while Twilight Sparkle had said she’d never wanted to be a monster, and while Twilight Sparkle had said she’d still want to be human if given the choice...  ...at no point could Rarity remember Twilight Sparkle ever saying that she was. change·ling 1. a shapeshifting monster capable of transforming into human and monster alike 2. someone lacking a definitive sense of self or identity (derogatory) 3. not Twilight Sparkle