An Artist Among Animals

by Bandy

13: Some Kind of Light Show

“I would have put on some tea, Twilight,” Rarity said over her shoulder as she picked another water bottle out of the fridge, “but sacrifices had to be made.”

Twilight sipped it gracefully as Rarity listed off her grocery bill. She imagined hot tea, then warm milk, then microwaved tap water.

“I would have put on some tea, Twilight,” Rarity said over her shoulder as she picked another water bottle out of the fridge, “but sacrifices had to be made.”

Twilight sipped it gracefully as Rarity listed off her grocery bill. She imagined hot tea, then warm milk, then microwaved tap water.

“How about your air conditioner?” she asked. “You can save plenty of money by turning it down.”

“Please,” Rarity scoffed happily. “There’s sacrifice, and then there’s suicide.” She sat down behind her sewing machine and paused for a moment to look out the front window.

“How’s the dress coming along?” Twilight asked.

“Beautifully, I should say. I decided to use your constellation pattern as accents on the back, around your wings. The interplay of light should draw attention to your regal wings, especially when you’re flying.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“Believe me, I’m just as impressed as you are,” Rarity chuckled. Her hooves hit fabric. The sewing machine chattered rudely beneath them. “Sometimes I have these passions, and I just don’t know what comes over me, but I blink and a few hours pass and I have a new piece of the puzzle in front of me.” Over and over the motor turned. “I hardly know where the time goes.”

Twilight motioned to the nearby couch. “May I?”

“Please,” Rarity replied without looking up. “Honestly, my worry with this dress is it may not be done by the end of the month. All these things to do, and all the things I want to do with your constellations.” she fiddled with the needle and restarted the machine. “I wouldn’t worry, at any rate. Whether it takes a week or a month or, I don’t know.” she tutted and played with the needle again. “You’ll be the coolest mare in Canterlot.”

Decades ago, Twilight imagined the stars from her balcony at the Golden Oaks Library, where she could peer into the abyss with her telescope. Before that, she imagined them from the roof of her parents’ Canterlot flat. As night approached, she would ask her father politely to help her up to the roof, where she would sit in the shadow of the castle until the sun went down and the sky became hers. The stars stayed the same--it was her perch beneath them that made the lights so special.

Now, when she thought of the stars, she saw them through the bedroom window of her castle. She pictured the faint light coming in on moonless nights, playing across the crystal, scattering, refracting, reacting to the room, falling across her bedsheets and setting a mood. The stars stayed the same--it was she who had changed. Where was the professional diplomat? Where was the accomplished general? Where was the hopeful learner who wanted to know all the world's secrets? Where was the scared little filly who pointed at the Whitetail Woods and burned it to the ground?

“How is Rainbow Dash?” Twilight asked.

“Just fine. She is fighting me hoof and nail, but I’m going to get her down by next week for some quality time. Probably, I don’t know, Saturday? It’s best to plan these things in advance so we have enough time to communicate with Dash. Look at the letter she sent yesterday.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s not what’s in it. Just look at it.”

Twilight turned the parchment over a few times. “Her cursive is really taking off.”

“I know. I’m hoping she develops the Canterlot accent to go with it. She’ll be a new mare.” Rarity let out a long laugh and kept sewing. “I’m so happy for her.”

The rough cursive spoke to Twilight in tripping syllables. It rushed and pulled. Still, it looked better than the last letter. She must have been practicing. The image of Rainbow Dash laboring over a spelling workbook brought a smile to her face.

It occurred to Twilight that no matter how hard Dash or any of them tried, they would never be new mares again. They were aging. She realized it every day in little ways. Her bangs sagged without the aid of mane product. The hot swing in her hips dragged. Life was autumn, the slow falling of fiery-colored leaves making way for an ashy winter. There was no cream for that.

As Rarity chattered away on the sewing machine, Twilight descended into a dark old dream, a fragment of biased memory. Only her friends kept her going. Her friends, her second most comforting thing. Maybe in a year or so there would be another friendship emergency, something that would force the six of them to work together again and save the world. They could put aside their differences and do something important.

The sewing machine paused. Rarity went into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of cheap moscato. Ten minutes later, she repeated the ritual. The first time they toasted to Rainbow Dash. The second time, they didn’t toast at all. Rarity hummed standards in reverse. Twilight made a game out of rolling the wine around in its glass faster and faster until it touched the lip and taping a sip when it stilled.

They just sat there, working and thinking, until Twilight decided it was time to leave. “Here is the first installment of your commision,” she said, floating a folded check to Rarity’s work table. “I know this dress is going to be special. I know it.”

Rarity crossed the room and gave Twilight a big hug. Her moscato circled around them as they embraced. Here was comfort. Here was the dance Twilight wanted. There were the strings. There was the check on the floor, blown around by the air conditioning vent. Twilight felt warm, but the cold gave it wings. She shivered in strange elation.