Part IV

It took them three days to make it to the village, following directions given to them by Incantation. No direct roads ran there; they cut across open country and under the eaves of the great forest, a cloak hiding Mender’s form.

Twilight stuck closer to Mender than her own shadow, eyes ever-open for any impediment in her path, any roots, any abrupt dips or hazards that could take the creature by surprise. Their progress was slow but steady. Both she and Mender could endure a long day’s travel, making up for in time what they lost in speed. 

No spectacular adventures, nothing along the lines of what she’d endured on the road in North Ridge’s company.

But they did get a little bit of spectacle on the second night.

“The fireflies are out tonight.” Twilight, a born multitasker, sat by the campfire and mended a tear in her cloak and watched the field beside them come alive with countless points of light.

“Oh?” From where she lay, Mender glanced idly in the direction of Twilight’s voice. She made no further answer for a moment. Then, “Describe them for me, would you?”

“Eh?”

“The fireflies. Paint a picture for me in your words.”

Twilight stared at the fireflies for a long moment, and added trying to mentally compose a description of them to her tasks. “They’re …” she said at last, “They’re glowing.”

“I feel you can do better than —”

“Constellations!” Twilight was struck then by inspiration. “Like all the stars in the sky have fallen into that field, and they’re all moving. Forming new patterns, shifting, and flowing all the time. Like in the foal’s story about the Moon Princess, who could rearrange the night sky at her leisure. That’s happening out there.”

Mender nodded approvingly. “Better. That conjures more of an image than ‘glowing’. We might make a storyteller of you yet.”

“Model myself on North Ridge, then?”

“There are worse models you could have.”

“Hmm.” Twilight made no more comment, and Mender didn’t pursue the subject. She was dozing shortly, and Twilight watched the fireflies dance as she settled down to her watch.

They still hadn’t addressed their situation, and when they’d left the village two days earlier, North looked healthier than Twilight had ever seen him. She’d even overheard Incantation and Swashbuckler discussing the logistics of guiding Twilight and North out of the village, back to civilization.

A choice would have to be made, and soon. 

The next evening, the third of their journey, there were no fireflies. But on the horizon were the distant shapes of buildings, from which chimney-smoke curled up into the darkening sky. The village where Mender’s patient awaited.

It was an affluent household of four: an older couple, their adult son, and the infamous sick daughter—also an adult. 

They seemed harmless even as they enthusiastically greeted Mender and Twilight, the latter having quietly expressed to the former that she would not hesitate to intervene if she felt something was off. 

They invited them in, and as Mender engaged in hesitant small talk, Twilight did her job and noticed. She noticed the family was not bothered by what they could see of Mender’s appearance, and they were quick to be upfront about their knowledge of her, having begged it out of former patients. They knew who she was, had no interest in divulging her identity, nor the whistleblowers’ identity, and simply wanted her help. 

The other thing Twilight noticed was the portraits on the wall. Almost all of them were of the family, but rather than featuring four ponies, they featured five. A stallion was in them—strapping and handsome—and based on how close he stood to the daughter in them, their tails intertwined, Twilight supposed he was the daughter’s partner. 

So, where was he? 

The answer was he was dead, apparently, and when the family led Mender and her guard into a dimly lit room, they found his widow practically comatose in bed. 

She was dying of grief, they told Mender. 

“Of grief?” Mender repeated. 

“Yes, yes,” continued the mother, harrowed. “Ever since Cobalt Tango died, she’s been getting worse and worse. All she does is sleep, and we can barely get her to eat.”

Mender swallowed visibly. “I see.” She cleared her throat. “So, she is not ill?”

“What do you mean?” asked the brother desperately. “Examine her for yourself!” He lifted the covers on the bed, revealing a pegasus mare, thin and frail and asleep. He gave Twilight an expectant look, which she ignored, her own attention set on Mender. “Come, come.”

“Rivermoon,” said Mender, appeasing. “Take me to the patient.”

“Mender,” she whispered.

“Rivermoon.” She would not ask again. 

Only respect for Mender stopped Twilight from voicing her thoughts to the family. Withholding her remarks, she motioned the family away to the room’s entrance to stand by the door. She led Mender to the pegasus and watched as the creature inspected her. 

“Mender,” she whispered, “she’s not sick sick.”

“Yes, I know,” she whispered back, her hooves now brushing against the mare’s face, putting on a whole show of examining her. “If this is grief, then… Then, this one wants to die, I assume.”

After a minute, she stood back, and without being asked, Twilight led her back near the room’s exit. 

“Well?” asked the brother. 

Mender opened and closed her mouth and then opened it again. “…She’s not diseased,” she said, polite but only just. “She’s not well, that much is certain, but she’s not sick. She’s not plagued by a physical disease, she’s not being killed by something.”

The son opened his mouth to protest, his eyebrows knitting firmly together, but stopped when the father raised his hoof. 

“No,” he said carefully, “she’s not dying of a traditional sickness. But she is dying. You can cure her.”

“…I can’t,” she replied. “I can only cure diseases. Sicknesses. Physical ones.”

“The heart is physical,” the mother insisted, irate. 

“But this is a matter of the mind,” replied Mender, aggravation lacing her tone. “This is a matter of the soul. My capabilities do not extend to such things. It would be like trying to change her own will. I can’t just change someone’s soul to what I want, I—”

“But you can,” interrupted the father. “You have. Like you did with that guard.”

“…Excuse me?”

If Twilight felt frozen, it did not hold a candle to Mender and her stricken, wide eyes, which the family completely misinterpreted. 

“It’s okay,” continued the father, in gentle tones now, you can trust us, “we don’t blame you! You were protecting yourself! But you manipulated her. That guard, you changed her heart! You controlled her into killing the king, surely you—.”

“I…You’re mistaken,” replied Mender, her voice weak, the edge filing off, her own body now inching away from Twilight. “I did no such thing.”

And she hadn’t, of course. Not at the castle, at any rate. 

“Please.” The mother launched herself towards Mender, stopping short of grabbing her only because Twilight stepped in immediately. 

“Stay back,” she barked. 

The mother obeyed, but the pleading did not stop. “Can’t you cure her?! Can’t you try?”

“She’s not even awake!” Mender protested. Her voice was coming undone at the seams, and the more Twilight tried to act as her shield, the more averse she seemed from her own guard, not just the family. “Even if—Even if I—Even if I could do that, I would be doing it against her will! Have you even considered what she wants?”

“Who cares what she wants?” the father exploded. “I am her father and know what’s best for her! Don’t tell me you have morals now. Or are you telling me you considered the guards’ will when you took her?”

Where once she’d have threatened with drinking them dry for speaking to her that way, now Mender stepped back, arrested, the once proud creature now again a guilt-ridden mare, her brittle sapphire eyes full of tears. 

She couldn’t even speak, unintelligible syllables tumbling out of her mouth. 

It took the father making a single new sound for Twilight to act. His sentence—a hasty “Now listen to me,”—died strangled in his throat when Twilight advanced on him, enraged. 

“No,” she snarled, so far past being polite that when she drew her sword and the entire family’s eyes widened with terror, she truly could not care less, “you listen to me.”

“River,” Mender pleaded, cowed, “please, let’s just—”

Twilight ignored her. 

“We are done here,” she continued. “And you know what? You’re right. Your daughter is dying of grief, and there is nothing we can do for her short of her choosing to move on or bringing her lover back.”

“You—you don’t know that,” whimpered the father. 

“Oh, yes, I do,” she said. No assertion she ever made was ever made without backing, and there was no backing like lived experience. “Ponies die. They die of diseases, sometimes they get killed, sometimes it’s their time, and sometimes they kill themselves, and there is nothing you can do about any of them. You either learn to live with the grief or you die of it.”

“Please.” The mother was on her knees, begging. “She’s dying.”

“I’m sorry, but there is nothing we can do.” She meant it. She was sorry, not really for the family, but for the mare. She wasn’t about to pretend she wasn’t aware that there but for the grace of the gods lay she. “We will be leaving now,” she finished, “and if I find out you’ve so much as whispered another word about the creature to anypony, or tried finding her again, I will happily facilitate a reunion with your son-in-law. Am I clear?”

They said nothing, only watched. 

“Good.” Her eyes on the family, she stepped back towards Mender and placed a firm hoof on her. This had started with them together, and it would stay that way as well. “Mender, the door is right behind you. Please go through it.” Mender hesitated, so Twilight spoke again, louder. “Please.”

Finally, the creature moved forward, pawing at the wall and stepping into the room next door. Once she was safely away from them, Twilight threw the ill mare one last look and then quickly followed after Mender, guiding her out of the house. 

Mender was deathly quiet, and remained as much when Twilight took her out of the village. She would have liked to stay there, at an inn or a similar place, but now all she wanted was to get the creature as far away from that place as possible. 

They stopped on the outskirts of the village, just long enough so that Twilight could make sure they weren’t being followed. She’d asked Mender to stay hidden behind a tree while she quickly did a perimeter check. 

It was only five minutes. 

She’d been gone for only five minutes, just five, and though she’d left behind a creature quietly sitting by a tree, she came back to find Mender leaning face-first against it, eyes burning forward, ears flat against her head, and her right forehoof dragging down on it as if trying to peel off the bark. 

Twilight stepped forward, cautious. “…Mender?” 

“I think,” said Mender, her voice low, “I think you should leave, Rivermoon.”

“…Why would I do that?”

“Because I am asking,” she said, her face still pressed against the bark, “and I am asking politely. And I will ask again. I think you should leave, Rivermoon. I want you to turn around, walk away, and never come back.”

“I promised I would bring you back home.”

“Tell me, does it look like I care what you’ve promised? Because I don’t. Or have you not heard I’ve no morals?”

Twilight breathed in and out. She had half a mind to go back and strangle the family. “Mender,” she said, instead, detaching her own feelings as much as she could. “I understand you’re upset, but—”

“Leave. I don’t care what you have to say, I want you to leave,” Mender interrupted, emotions seething like lava below her surface, threatening to erupt. “I will not ask again.”

“I see.” Twilight sat down. “I’m sorry, but you might have to.”

“…Why…”

It was low. It was so low at first, like a whisper of the wind, but when it came again as she turned around, her voice was monstrous, like nails drawn down a chalkboard, grating and guttural and ugly, like she were bleeding with every word, baring fangs that thirsted for blood. 

“Why,” demanded the creature, “can you never do as you are ASKED?!” She stepped forward, towards Twilight’s direction, every word out of her mouth coated in venom. “Why are you incapable of ever doing what I ask?! I asked you not to come back, and you did! Again, and again, and again, bringing with you the sick and the dying so that the hideous monster of the forest might take on their disease!”

Twilight said nothing. She simply sat there, breathing in and breathing out, listening as it all came out. 

“And then I asked you to give me a dignified death,” continued the creature, every shadow in its disfigured body made darker by the moonlight. “And once again! Once again, you did not do as you were asked!” And all of a sudden, her voice changed, anger turning into pain, desperate and burning, and in that moment, the Lady was no different than the family she’d just refused. “And then when they came for us, I asked you—I begged you—to let them take me. I begged you to leave. And you didn’t. And then—And then—” 

She was back to her tree. Gripping it. Every sentence pushed through gritted teeth. 

“And then I became a monster. And I thought maybe then you would leave. I thought that was the end. It was over. But no.” She closed her eyes, furious. “Why…? Why can’t you just leave things well enough alone?”

“I’m your guard.”

“I never asked you to be my guard,” the Lady hissed. 

“I never said you asked.”

A moment passed in which neither spoke. Until finally the Lady did.

“Well, unfortunately, I’m done with this.” She let out a humorless chuckle. “I am so very tired of this all,” she said, the bitterness returned. “And I am no longer asking, I am now telling you I want you gone. I am going to close my eyes, and when I next open them, I will call out, and if I so much as hear the sound of your voice, you will join the ponies I’ve killed. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” replied Twilight. “I understand.”

An hour passed. Then two, then three, and then more, longer than anypony would be expected to sit there completely motionless. The Lady stayed by her tree, fury evident in her eyes for hours until it softened, and softened, and by the time the sixth hour had rolled around, she looked crushed by the weight of it all. 

Her eyes opened, and her forehead still pressed against the tree—for so long her horn had made a small indent in it—she opened her mouth and spoke, ears flat against her skull. 

“…Are you still there?” When no one replied, she closed her eyes, and when she spoke again, her voice broke. “Did you leave?”

Twilight stood up, ignoring the light aching of her joints as she trotted forward until she was standing next to the miserable-looking creature. 

She tapped her shoulder twice, and when the Lady’s eyes shot open, they were full of tears. 

“…I…”

It was so low. It was so soft, like the whispering of wind, suffused in regret and fear and contrition. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered the creature, frozen against its tree. “I’m sorry, I’m—I was scared, I was so frightened, I—If they hurt you, I—Please.” Every word was harrowed. “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me—”

Twilight had only twice held the Lady in her aberrant state. 

Once, in the cart, right after killing the king and before the Lady drank from her for the first time. And now, there in that forest, for the second time, the creature’s words dying in her mouth when Twilight pulled her in. Both times, the Lady had been crying over Twilight. Both times, Twilight had been completely at peace with what had been done and whatever came next. 

“I don’t remember you ever having wronged me,” she said, her chin resting atop the Lady’s head, right next to her horn, “but even if you had, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t forgiven you already.”

She meant every word, of course, and she was more than happy to sit there for an hour or so, holding the Lady as she wept against her heart, Twilight’s own gaze following the straggling fireflies that weren’t deterred by the dawn just yet. 

Maybe one day they might be able to see them dance together. 

They did not speak of the family for the rest of the trip, nor did they speak of the Lady’s explosive outburst. In fact, they barely spoke at all, the weary Lady having requested to ride on Twilight’s back, acknowledging her disability slowed them down. 

She just wanted to go home, she’d said, and when she was secured onto her guard’s back, she thanked her not as Twilight Sparkle, but Rivermoon. 

“Of course, Mender,” she replied, falling into line. 

The entire village showed up to greet them, relief evident in their expressions at seeing Mender unharmed. 

They asked her what had happened, and she refused to elaborate. They later asked Twilight, and she followed Mender’s tacit directive, refusing to elaborate, as well. 

In the end, only North Ridge knew the truth. 

“And then she called you Rivermoon? Even after all that?” He sighed, snug under the covers of his bed. “One step forward, two steps back.” 

“It’s fine.” She was polishing her sword, which she’d promised Swashbuckler she’d return to Mender. If only he knew! “When you’re finished with your treatments, she’ll have to decide then what she wants, but it’s fine if she’s not ready yet.”

“Ah… She might have to be ready soon, then.” Twilight turned and met his gaze. “I confess I don’t think I need another session. While you two were gone, I spoke with the Elder. They asked if we would consider leaving soon, and I told them I could be gone as soon as tomorrow.”

Twilight blanched. “…Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he replied calmly. Like it was nothing. “Tomorrow. And I’ve already agreed.”

“That…” She looked at her sword, at her reflection staring back. She looked tired. She felt tired. She’d only just returned, she still thought she had more time, she… “That’s… That’s really soon.”

“They expect you to leave with me,” he continued. “And I didn’t correct them, because I don’t know the answer myself. Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. Or did she? 

“Twilight, if I may,” he said, suddenly. “I want to apologize for something.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Apologize? Apologize for what?”

“You know, I made the decision some time ago,” he said, almost as if he’d forgotten the topic, turning onto his back to gaze up at the ceiling. “But I wasn’t sure. And then I spoke with the Elder, and I made the choice, and still, I wasn’t sure. But then you came back! And you told me what happened, and that settled it.” Before she could question him, he rolled onto his side and locked eyes with hers. “Twilight, I apologize for forcing you into a choice.”

“…So you are.”

“And, not only that, but I also have opinions on your choice. I’d like to be an annoyingly opinionated and nosy stallion, if you don’t mind.” 

She cracked a half-grin despite the situation. “Are you actually asking for permission?”

“Certainly not! Now—” He cleared his throat. “As your traveling companion, I don’t think I can properly express how deeply I would miss your company if you were to stay behind. I think it might kill me just a bit.”

“Not enough to undo months of healing, I hope.”

“Goodness, no! I love you dearly, but not that much. But, in any case.” Once more, he cleared his throat. “But! As your dearest friend in this great, vast world, knowing what I know about you both, and seeing so much of it first-hoof…”

“Yes?”

His look was of unmistakable fondness. It radiated off him like a heat haze. 

“My stars, nothing in this world short of my wife coming back would please me as much as the agony of missing you. My dear girl, it would make my life.”

“North…” 

“I mean it, Twilight,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “I want to be able to tell your story to ponies in taverns all over the realm. I want to make you famous! I want to drink myself silly in the Lady’s and your honor, and then I want to wake up every morning with the worst hangover of my life, sick with envy. I hope I want to run back and kill you every single morning.”

“What? Envy? Kill me?” she laughed. “Why?”

“Why?” Now it was two ponies with tears in their eyes. “Why, because you’d get to take the title of widower back.”

He left the next day, at the crack of dawn, when most of the village was still fast asleep. 

He liked it better that way, he’d told Twilight through a yawn. Less fuss, less sadness to deal with. He was having quite enough of it with Twilight, and he was already dreading the one he’d feel when he stopped by Mender’s house to say goodbye. 

“It’s been an honor, Twilight,” he told her, standing by the door. “You’ll forgive an old stallion for his sentimentality, but it’ll be my dearest wish that we cross paths again one day.”

“That would be really nice,” she replied, a pain in her chest. “Thank you for everything. If it wasn’t for you…”

He waved her off. “Bah! None of that. You’d have ended up here with or without me eventually. I’m just happy I got to help.” His winning smile was accentuated with a wink. “I love taking credit for things, don’t you know?” He gave her a low bow and then moved to leave only to stop and look back. “Ah, before I forget, what should I tell your Lady if she asks about your plans?”

“Oh, right. Tell her that unless Swashbuckler kicks me out or the Elder forbids it, I’ll be staying indefinitely, I think.”

How his eyes sparkled. “Good show, my girl. Good show.”

Mender was sitting on her couch when Twilight walked in a few hours later. 

“Rivermoon?” she asked at once, as soon as she’d heard the door open. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Mender,” she replied, closing the door behind her. “Sorry, I’m a little late. I didn’t sleep well, and I woke up early to help North Ridge finish packing.”

“That’s fine. He told me,” she said, hastily. “I… He said you’re staying in the village? Is that true?”

“Yes,” she replied, and the immediate relief that flooded Mender’s face vanished just as fast when she added, “I mean, in theory.”

“…In theory?” asked Mender. “What do you mean exactly ‘in theory’?” 

Twilight waited until she stood right in front of the creature before speaking again. 

“I say in theory because you didn’t specify who you think is staying,” Twilight replied, watching Mender’s brow furrow. 

“…I don’t believe I follow.”

“That’s fine. I have a question I want to ask.” She didn’t allow Mender space to protest. “If you were willingly offered healthy blood, would you take it?”

She watched as Mender’s face contorted in confused displeasure, the hazy eyes trying to focus on a pony she could not see. “What? I—We already talked about this?”

“Yes, and you said you wouldn’t take it because it’s too much of a risk.” 

“That’s right,” Mender said, and then added, “But how is this relevant?”

“It’s relevant because I am offering it to you now. I want to know if you’ll take my blood,” Twilight replied, “because your answer will define who exactly is staying here in the village with you.”

“‘Who is staying in the’—What do you mean? That makes no sense! You’re staying.” She leaned back, fearful. “…Aren’t you?”

“Do you remember the conversation with the hatchlings?” 

“Which one?” exclaimed Mender, her irritation evident. “They’re always talking! That could mean anything, for heaven’s sake. Are you not staying? Or are you?” 

“We were talking about my duty as a guard. Do you remember? I told them that it didn’t matter whether or not I was practicing, I was still a guard. I will always be somepony’s guard.”

“…Yes. I remember.”

“You picked me to be your guard, Mender,” she said. “And it has been my honor.” And she meant every word. “You have been kind to me and to others. And you don’t take risks, which works perfectly well with Rivermoon because she doesn’t take risks, either. Rivermoon would agree that it’s better to accept things as they are.”

Mender’s voice was barely above a whisper. 

“What exactly are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that I, Rivermoon, will always be your guard, Mender,” she replied, “but Twilight Sparkle will always and forever be the Lady’s guard, and I don’t see her here. I haven’t seen the Lady for a very long time.”

There came a silence. Long, and eternal, broken only when the creature spoke through tears.

“Ah,” she said, softly, “I never took you to be so cruel.”

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” Twilight replied, her tone level, trying so very hard to keep it that way. 

“No? And yet you are.” She smiled thinly, fangs peeking out. “Do you realize what you’re implying? What you’re saying? That you can recognize me only as a beautiful, healthy pony?”

“I’m not saying that,” Twilight replied. 

“But you are. You—”

“No. I’ve never minded what you look like,” Twilight interrupted, firm but not angry. Just a little bit desperate. “I’ve never cared what you look like. And the Lady I knew didn’t either. It wasn’t even the Lady who I decided to guard, it was the creature. And I care that you’ve decided the creature should be your prison for a crime only you can’t forgive.”

Silence. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a question. It was a plea. 

“I want you to be happy.” 

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was a plea. 

She laughed, and it was like sand. It hurt, just as much as it hurt to hear her voice break.

“I’m frightened,” she confessed, and for the first time, not just since Twilight had met her, but possibly for centuries upon centuries, it was not Mender who spoke, nor the Lady, and not even the creature. “I’m scared.” 

It was Rarity, a soul who’d gone through hell and back, broken and remade over and over and over again. 

Twilight placed her hoof over Rarity’s chest, over a heart that was bruised, and mangled, and dead, but still there. 

As much Twilight’s as her own was Rarity’s. 

“Then do it scared.” 

“But you’d—You’d be blind again. I don’t know if I can heal that, I don’t—You’d be hurt.” 

“Then let it. Let me, please. It was my choice. It was my choice.” Her other hoof found its spot on Rarity’s foreleg, over the scabs, and the boils, and the peeling, rotting skin. “And I would do it again.” 

“I can’t,” she whispered, harrowed. “I can’t, I—” 

“Rarity.” 

Twilight felt her freeze. 

“I killed a king. I crossed the entire realm in a year. I would have stayed here, never speaking again.” 

“I never asked you to do that for me.” 

“I never said you asked,” she replied softly. “I’m just trying to understand what I have to do to convince you that I want to share your burdens with you.”
 

“And if I don’t do it,” she whispered. “If I don’t ever drink from you, then what?” 

“Then you won’t. And I’ll still stay.” As if her answer would ever be anything else. “I just want you to choose.” 

There came a long pause. And, finally, she spoke.

“Then I will.” 

Out there, exist worlds where Twilight Sparkle made different choices. 

There exists a world where her brother never convinced her to become a guard, a world where she was a librarian for the rest of her life, where she watched an enchanted carriage take her dying brother alone into a forest where all the sick went to die. 

There exists another world where she did not return after meeting the creature. Another where she met the creature once and never looked back. Another where she slew a Lady and not a monster in a castle, and another where she heard—not watched—as her Lady was dragged away from a small village in chains, sentenced for a crime she did not commit. 

There exists a world, as well, where her name is no longer even Twilight Sparkle. A world where she lived and died as Rivermoon, a quiet librarian who kept to herself, aware of a hole in her heart she’d learned to live around. She might have even eventually been happy in that world, just as she might have learned to be happy in any world. 

But those were not any worlds she knew of, and if one were to ask for her opinion on the matter, she would say they were worlds she did not care much to know or even think of. 

In the world she knew, inside a hidden-away changeling village, Twilight Sparkle stirred awake in her bed one day to a burn in her eyes, her hoof lazily brushing over a familiar pain in her neck. 

She’d read once in a book that the relief that comes from throwing off a long-held and dear burden is immediate but short-lived. The regret follows you for much, much longer.

Lying there, her eyes closed, not quite ready to wake up, she thought of that passage. She thought of the pain she’d gone through, the efforts, the weight of it all, and the weight that was still to come, and she found that of all the things she felt, regret was not one. 

She felt peace, overflowing and boundless, even as she cracked open her left eye and saw nothing but the familiar nothingness of being blind, the blurry dark with flashes of light. 

She felt peace, and it was only when she opened her right eye that she was presented with the clear sight of a warm, blue ceiling. 

If seconds ago she’d still been half-asleep, she was now wide awake, bolting upright in bed with the realization that only one of her eyes could not see. 

There came a knock at her front door right after. A series of knockings, really, frantic and desperate, and before she could even formulate a reply in her mind, let alone with her mouth, the door swung open and in barged little Fronds, more distressed than she’d ever seen him. 

“Rivermoon!” he gasped, rushing to her bed, pulling at her covers, horrified. “Rivermoon!” 

“What?” she exclaimed, every ounce of her alert. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s Mender,” he despaired, and her alert grew tenfold. He couldn’t even get the words out. “It’s—she—!” 

“She what?” she asked. “She what, Fronds?” 

And then came another voice, as little Caliper barged in. 

“Rivermoon!” she shrieked, and she reeked of delight. “It’s Mender. She can see.” She was glowing. “And she’s PRETTY!” 

“No!” gasped Fronds, affronted. Indignant. “She looks like a GIRL!” 

One, two, three seconds passed, and when Twilight fell back onto the bed, it was with a shaky laugh and teary eyes. 

“Oh.”

Rarity had done it. Twilight had begged her to let her share their burdens, and literally and figuratively, she’d finally allowed it.

Oh, it felt good to be alive. It felt so, so good to be alive. 

And in came the rest, the whole squad of hatchlings, calling her name, tugging her out of bed, because she had to come quick, she had to come, she had to see for herself, why was she walking, not running?

Why should she? There was no rush. There was only the sun shining down on her face, the breeze brushing her coat, the beating of her heart, and the excited chattering of the village as one and all rushed to town hall to see her for themselves. 

It was over. 

It had only just begun.

A crowd had formed outside the little town hall, changelings rushing in and out, bursting with new life. Two changelings in particular stood out, standing right outside the main doors, the only ones to stop their conversation when they saw her approach. 

Incantation was the first to speak. Her smile was ear to ear. 

“So.” 

“So,” Twilight grinned.

“It’s been a day, let me tell you,” Incantation said. “And it’s not even noon.” 

The other cleared his throat, and Twilight turned her gaze to Swashbuckler. And there was no distrust in his gaze, no concern or fear or threat. There was gratitude. There was even respect. 

And there was a sword, held out to her, kept safe in a brand-new sheath. 

“Here,” he said, “I’ve been informed this belongs to you.” 

“It does, thank you,” she replied, taking back her old friend. 

“You know, I really thought I was the best guard I knew,” he confessed. “But I think I could stand to learn a lot from you. How does a drink at the tavern sound later today? My treat.” 

“That sounds great, actually. That sounds really nice.” 

But not as nice as the voice that came from inside the building, piercing through the chatter, desperate for some semblance of calm. 

“Now, really, you all must calm down, please.” 

And it was like velvet. It was oh so smooth, it was like heaven, it was so, so nice. After the grating of sand, it was her second favorite sound in the whole entire world. All it needed, really, was the sound of a sewing machine alongside it. 

But that would come soon enough. 

She didn’t even have to ask. The two of them simply stepped aside, delighted to watch her finally make her way into the crowd that awaited within. 

There was a sea of changelings. There was a small stage. On it was the Elder, frazzled, and concerned, and delighted all at once, completely out of her depths in the best of ways. 

And next to her?

Next to her was the arresting sight of a unicorn mare. 

Once Twilight stared at her, and started to take her in, she found it hard to stop.

She was never a mare for poetry, but in that moment, she badly wished she were. 

A white hide, gleaming and lustrous, over a sleek and healthy frame. Three blue diamonds, the mark of a creature who’d once been a pony. A purple mane, cascading in glossy, perfectly-brushed curls down around her neck, her head, her face …

Her eyes. 

The right one clouded by a haze of white, but the left one… The left one was just as Twilight remembered it. Sapphire. Deep and beautiful, as blue as an ocean Twilight would be happy to drown in. Piercing, full of emotion, distracted by the Elder and then painfully focused as she turned her head, as if she knew, and a single sapphire crossed the room and met its violet half. 

Eyes for each other, and only each other. 

The world fell away, and whatever Rarity had been saying died on her lips as she took Twilight in, and when next she spoke, even if it was a whisper only to herself, Twilight could hear it clear as day. 

“Oh, my stars.” 

It came again just as soon as Twilight moved forward, through the dispersing crowd, delighted in ways she didn’t think she could be at the sight of Rarity visibly struggling to keep her composure, to pretend she still cared about whatever the Elder was saying, to not crack under the pressure that mounted with every step Twilight took, forward and forward, until it burst just as the guard stopped before the stage. 

“All right, enough!” exclaimed Rarity, and the room fell silent. “Please.” 

Everyone watched, and though Twilight knew what her favorite sounds were, she was delighted to have a front row seat to a sight that now competed for top spot as her favorite one. How fortunate that its competition was tied to the same creature. 

“Please, I appreciate your concerns, but—” She refused to look at Twilight. “I need you all to please give me a moment alone with my guard. I beg you.” 

There was a pause, and then a flurry of apologies, and ‘of course’s, and chatter as the room almost immediately emptied, changelings hurriedly filing out until the last one closed the door behind her, and all that was left was a Lady and her guard. 

Then, and only then, did Rarity finally speak. 

“Twilight Sparkle, you wretch,” said her Lady, high upon her impenetrable throne. “How could you have done this to me?” 

“Done what, my Lady?” replied her guard, admiring. She then winked her blind eye. “I think we’re even now, don’t you?” 

“You think we—You think we’re—” It slipped in, sometimes. That lovely grating of sand. She stamped her hoof on the stage when Twilight laughed. “And what, pray tell, is so funny?” 

“Nothing, my Lady. I just never thought I’d be so happy to be called a ‘wretch’.” 

“Oh? Oh? Well, that’s because you are. You are, by and large, the wretchiest wretch I’ve ever seen. The queen of the wretched.” 

“The queen? My Lady, what an honor.” Rarity stepped back as Twilight jumped onto the stage, the two on even ground for the first time. “I have been called an overachiever.” 

“You idiot, what are you doing?” she pleaded. “Don’t be a fool.” 

Twilight smiled. “I’ve been called that, too.” 

“Twilight. Please. Think about what you’re doing,” she insisted, like a warning. “I’m not a beautiful fairytale. I am a cursed creature.” 

Even then, even still, her voice was wracked with fear, her eyes wet with tears. Twilight could hardly blame her. For a creature such as her, after everything she’d been through, there probably wasn’t a thing more terrifying than the idea that she was loved just as she was. 

“I have thought about it,” Twilight said, tilting her head just so. “That’s why I’m here.”

“No—You—They—” The words came stammered out. “They could come for us again!” 

Twilight stepped forward just as Rarity stepped back. 

“Let them, then.” 

“They could find us,” she insisted. “It could be just like back at the village, them coming in the middle of the night for us both.” 

Another step forward, and another step back.

“Let them.” 

“They could come for you,” she begged, and when Twilight again stepped forward, Rarity found a wall that stopped her from stepping back. She slumped against it, fighting until the end, surviving at all costs, but when her mouth opened to voice another protest, another complaint, another excuse, anything she could find, her attempts died the moment Twilight’s forehead pressed against hers. 

“I don’t care.” Twilight closed her eyes, and said it again, and again, and again, she could say it until her voice gave out. “Please. When will you be convinced?” 

“I…”

Silence fell around them, permeating the room. There they stood, forehead to forehead, a single heart beating for two, frozen in spot until Twilight felt a hoof press against her cheek.

And a voice so very low. 

“I wished it was you.” 

Twilight hung on every word.

“Even before you broke your oath. From the moment I touched you, the moment I realized you were a unicorn guard, I—” She paused, and then bled out, voice coming undone. “I lay in bed every night wishing it were you. I—” Tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I waited for you, at the grave, I—I waited—”

“I know,” Twilight whispered, bleeding just as much, “I’m sorry I took so long. But I’m here now.”

“For good?” 

There it was. The hope. The risk.

“For good.”

Finally, Rarity’s other hoof found its spot on Twilight’s chest, right over their heart.

“You’re a fool, Twilight,” she whispered. “What are we supposed to do now?” 

“What we’ve always done,” Twilight replied. “I’ll be your guard, and you’ll be my Lady.” 

She laughed in reply, and it was like wind chimes, relieved and soothing and peaceful all at once. And just that little bit of grating sand. 

“A lady? And what about when I heal others? When I’m back to rotting skin, and boils, and all the bloody rest? What then, my heart?”

The answer was simple. 

“Then I’ll be your guard,” she replied, “and you’ll be my Creature.”