Rarity wears chains.
"Hello, Rarity. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to join Angel and me for a picnic this afternoon? Um. If you're not busy, that is. Oh. O-of course. I should've known you'd have work. M-maybe next time."
Not literal chains, of course. She had already been at the mercy of such crude bondage previously in her life, and were she similarly bound once again, it is widely accepted that she would ensure that the whole of Ponyville would know (as the pack of Diamond Dogs living beneath Platinum Plateau could fearfully attest). No, her restraints are metaphorical in nature, in service to enduring ambition.
Rarity wears the chains of beauty.
"Hey, Rarity! I have the books you wanted, all four volumes. Hey, if don’t have any plans, would you like to get some lunch? Oh. No, if you have a work order, then you should finish it. See you later."
She tries not to be vain in such a declaration, private as it may be. At some point, humility must abide, for it is the simple truth that she is an alluring creature, by the graces of nature as well as her own nurture. Simplicity has never suited her. Mediocrity has never suited her. She may be a small town pony, but that is no excuse. Rarity has always wanted to look stunning, wanted to know fame, and she has well and truly succeeded.
But with the glory of success comes the weight of responsibility. To become beautiful and remain beautiful are two entirely different things. Hoity Toity, Sapphire Shores, Fancy Pants; these are the names of her jailors, her prison one of compliments and adoration. And she loves it as much as she hates it, for the alternative is unto death. High society is cutthroat, as savage as the beasts lurking within the Everfree. Her peers do not accept; they tolerate, and only that as long as they buy into the illusion that she is one of them.
And the truth, simply, is that she is not.
"Hiya, Rarity! Whatcha doing? Aw, your drawer's not that small; I just curled myself up into a little ball! Heehee, that rhymes! Anyway, it's been a hundred days since Thunderlane's birthday, and I was wondering if you'd like to come with the ‘Hundred-Days-Since-Thunderlane’s-Birthday Party’ I’m throwing! Awww, come onnnnn! It'll be fun! Sapphire Shores can wait! ...okie-dokie-loki. But I better see you at Ditzy's Ten-Days-Without-Dropping-Anything Party! Bye!"
She loves Butterflies and Apples and Rainbows and Balloons and Starbursts, not the cold game of sabotage and supremacy. But she can never express such adoration, for fear of the sharks that wear false smiles, promise her new boutiques, offer accolades and celebrations. She can never be seen offering a fond nuzzle to the sweet little dragon so adorably smitten with her, never allow her thoughts to wander in the direction of what a gentlepony he may grow into. She must hang off the hoof of "Lord What's-His-Name?" and "Prince Ruffian". She cannot design as the artist lurking among those three little diamonds adorning her flank desires, instead pandering to the fickle tastes of her haughty peers.
Exile threatens, the ruination of everything she has sacrificed so much for. Her parents, whom had fed and clothed and tickled her pearlescent little body 'til she had screamed with mirth, are akin to a dark and terrible secret now. Their crass, uneducated ways sit ill with her regal judges, and it breaks her heart to tersely decline their many invitations to come visit. That is to say nothing of Sweetie Bell, who would be endearing, if not for the scorn this lord or that lady held for children at play. Observe instead her own foals, so demure, so polite, so very silent, like a trio of porcelain dolls, unmoving and untouchable. Within every snarl at her cowering younger sibling, Rarity laces a prayer of gratitude to Celestia that Sweetie Bell is so noisy, so destructive, so gloriously alive.
"Ouch. Sorry about your window, Rares. New trick gone wrong. Hey you wanna come watch and give me feedback? Huh? Oh, right, Hoity Toity's thing. Forgot about that. Well, maybe later. Sorry about the mess!"
And her poor friends. "Charmingly rustic", Fancy Pants had called them. Synonyms for the word included quaint, simple, unsophisticated, rude, boorish, an uncouth. That last one was a special bruise in her heart, a scar unintentionally inflicted over the neglect of her truthfully beloved sister.
"Charmingly rustic." Was it one or the other? Or was their disruption charming the way a dog rolling in the mud is? In which case, did he mean to imply (as it was never proper to directly announce one's insults in high society) that they were more akin to pets than dear extended additions to her family? Worth a few chuckles and a hooffull of treats, but not allowed in the house and ultimately short-lived? If so, Rarity knew, with incensed outrage, that it was not acceptable to speak of her dearest companions so disrespectfully.
Yet she had smiled with the rest of her friends, all uneducated in the intricacies of double meanings. The Warden had spoken, and to contradict him meant solitary confinement.
"Howdy, Rarity! I'm just here t’pick up Sweetie fer th’ sleepover. Dash's already down at th’ farm, gettin’ supplies for th’ campfire. You sure you don' wanna come? Shoot, you're up in Canterlot so much, I practically think you're just visitin’ Ponyville. If ya change your mind, we'll be down at th’ orchard. Room aplenty."
She declines because Hoity Toity has arranged another fashion show. She declines because Sapphire Shores has another fitting. She declines because Fancy Pants asked her to dinner. She declines because she remembers hears a joke told at Sugarcube Corner and laughs too hard during a play. She declines because Blueblood recoils when he finds an errant apple blossom in her mane. She declines because Photo Finish accuses her of cheating when she predicts the winner of the Wonderbolt derby for the third time. She declines because she stops a lady from feeding her dog a treat that is bad for the animal's digestion. She declines because she already knows how the novel ends. She declines because there is another stallion complimenting her on the glimmering fire ruby clasped at her throat.
"H-hey Rarity! Uh, I mean... hey, Rarity! I just came by to give you these sapphires. I was saving them for a special occasion, but I heard you complaining to Twilight the other day about not having enough and, well... here. Oh no, I don't want to intrude; I know you're busy. I just... wanted you to know I was thinking of you. Anyway, uh, bye!"
Rarity declines because she wears chains. And every night, she dreams she could fly as pegasi do. As free ponies do. As dragons do.
Author's Note
An experimental piece. I took "Rarity" as a prompt and ran with it.
