you’ve been making group decisions about us without us

Princess Twilight had read Fritter Cobbler’s letter about thirty times or more. 

Sitting atop opposite bookcases, every single time I looked up from the book I was barely reading, I’d find her still staring at the worn letter, her expression indecipherable. 

I put my book down and folded my hands on my lap, as I did whenever I wanted to pry into her heart. 

“Princess?” 

She didn’t look up at first. “You don’t have to call me that anymore, Rarity.” 

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just…” I licked my lips. “It feels disrespectful not to do so, is all. A princess should always be addressed formally, shouldn’t she?”

“I wasn’t always a princess.” Her eyes flitted up, away from the letter, and met mine. Cold. No, not cold. Impassive. Something we were working on, day by day. “What do you need?” 

“If I may pry…” 

The ghost of a smile haunted her lips. “Don’t you always?” 

“I do,” I replied, returning the smile briefly before losing it, hesitant about my next few words. “What was Fritter Cobbler like?” 

I worried she’d be cross at me for broaching a sensitive topic, but I couldn’t help but be curious about him. He and I were the same, were we not? The only two souls to ever stumble into the princess’ library and get to speak to her in a meaningful way. 

Of course, he’d almost gotten himself killed for it. 

Not me, I’d thought. Not me.

Her gaze fell upon the letter, and she spoke. “I don’t remember.” 

My eyes widened. “You don’t remember?” 

“Not a lot, no.” Her tone softened enough that I wished I could join her on the other bookcase. “I remember some things. I remember I liked him, but I don’t really remember what I liked about him or what he was like. I don’t really remember the things that happened while I’ve been in here.” 

“Ah. That’s unfortunate.” I cleared my throat. “It seems he cared about you a great deal if he never stopped trying to find you for the rest of his life.” 

“I suppose. I just assumed he didn’t want to come anymore.” 

“I’m sorry, Princess,” I said, sympathetic. “That must have been difficult for you.” 

“It’s fine. He didn’t mean much,” she replied, the callous statement again spoken like she was noting the weather. “He was around less than one percent of the time I’ve been in here.” 

Silence. Then: 

“That’s rather awful of you to say, Twilight,” I replied, perhaps more harshly than intended, the respectful honorific gone. “He died looking for you, and you think of him as nothing but a percentage?” 

Vestiges of her humanity reared their head in her eyes, flashing with hurt. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she clarified sternly.  

“It’s what you said.” 

“It was just a fact. I’ve been here over a thousand years, and he was someone I knew for a few months.” 

“Someone you knew for a few months is still worth remembering, Princess,” I remarked, struggling to keep my tone lukewarm. 

“Not when they keep dying, Rarity.” Fritter’s letter landed on the bookcase, and though it was floated down, it still somehow felt like a slam. “If I remembered or attached myself to everyone I’ve met in here, I would have gone insane with grief thirty generations of owls ago.” 

She wasn’t shouting, but still, I leaned back, cowed. 

“I cared about Fritter Cobbler when he was here, Rarity. I did. He was my friend. But he left, just like all my owls have died, so I thank them for their time, and then I let them go.” 

She waited for me to say something afterward, funnily enough. She always gave me space to reply, no matter what the discussion was, no matter how irritated I may have made her. 

“I see,” I said, quietly. “I understand.” Some stinging pain constricted my chest, and the desire to argue, but… “Thank you for answering my questions,” I said instead, genuine. 

She could not have opened up, but she had. I wanted her to know it had been appreciated. 

“…You’re welcome,” she replied, the slight defensiveness vanishing. 

I picked up my book. She picked up her letter. I read about, oh, two pages before I put it down next to me and folded my hands on my lap. 

“Am I…” 

I didn’t want to ask. Well, I wanted to ask, but I was terrified to hear her answer, which was in itself a terrifying fact because it meant I cared. I’d known her only a few scant months, just like Fritter Cobbler, and I could feel the care digging deeper into my soul with every passing day. 

“I suppose the same will happen to me!” I exclaimed, masking real fear with teasing lightness. If I said it, if I spoke it into truth, if it was me who said it rather than her, then it might hurt less. “I’ll also be a percentage in the end. I’ll simply have to last long enough to be less than one percent. Two percent sounds adequate. That’s, what, twenty years?”

“Approximately, yes.” 

“Let’s make it six percent, then,” I corrected. “I don’t expect to die in the next twenty years. I expect to live at least until—”

“Rarity.” 

I fell silent, watching her furrowed brow and troubled eyes stare down at the letter of a percentage long gone. 

“You’re not going to be a percentage.” 

“Won’t I?” I asked, quietly.

“No.” 

“How do you know?” I asked, and before she could answer but just as our gazes finally crossed, I offered my most dazzling grin. “Is it because I’m getting you out of here, Twilight?” 

And when she laughed, the corners of her eyes crinkling, I felt like I was starting to understand why Fritter Cobbler died trying to see her again. 

“Yes,” she said. “You are.”