It was midnight in the Ponyville graveyard, and Rarity was thinking about her lies. She told lots of lies, it was an inherent part of fashion after all. Take perfume. Perfume was a lie, a way to disguise an individual's natural scent, a way to subtly claim that you were more pure than earthly flesh.
Rarity used a lot of perfume after nights like tonight.
She wondered about the morality of her lies, they harmed nopony after all, and the truth was awful. The dressmaker had a great deal of faith in her friends, and if she’d come to them with almost anything else they would probably simply accept her and move on. They were decent like that.
She was digging without the aid of magic, not wanting to take the risk of discovery from the subtle glow. She was better than three feet down now, her work half done from her perspective as refilling the grave was the easy part.
Rarity reflected, as she had many times before, that she hadn't asked to be born like this.
Her family had been so understanding about it all, her mother teaching her those first few illusions, and her father risking life and limb to help her cope, not to mention the danger of an angry pitchfork wielding mob if she was discovered.
In recent years she’d begun to make delicate inquiries about her nature, borrowing old and sinister tomes from Twilight that the librarian normally kept locked away. Her situation used to happen a lot apparently, mostly back in the bad old days of chaotic upheaval like the Nightmare War, or during Discord’s reign.
She was breathing hard and sweating, so Rarity decided to take a quick break.
Sitting back on her haunches, Rarity stared up at the plain marker and wondered about the pony buried here.
Silky Shears, beloved Husband and Father, date of birth and death illegible. Rarity had done enough homework to ensure that the widow had followed him into the grave a few years later, though her family had insisted that the body be brought back to Cloudsdale for cremation.
It was interesting how some old tribal customs stick around, earth ponies buried their dead, pegasi cremated them, and unicorns were always mummified.
Even a pauper of a unicorn would be dried with their guts removed, and walled up in a mausoleum. It seemed a bit of a waste to Rarity.
She got up and resumed digging.
Rarity recalled that there were several conflicting thoughts on what happened to a pony after death. Some claimed that Princess Luna ferried a ponies soul to the moon, but having been there Rarity really hoped that wasn't the case, others claimed that you just wandered the world as a ghost. The most popular theory was that you were simply reborn into a new life, though what there is that was fundamentally ‘you’ that could survive such a rebirth had always eluded Rarity.
Perhaps, she thought, there is nothing after the lights go out, she wasn't sure if that thought was comforting or terrifying. It didn't seem right for a body to just molder in the ground as food for worms or other interested parties, or to just be burned to so much ash with only a plaque to mark your passing.
The grave dirt was staining her coat, and the dressmaker smiled grimly to herself. What a sight she must be, her simple muddiness alone would probably be enough to make those who knew her doubt their senses.
That was another lie of course. It is true that Rarity didn't like to get dirty, but her normal reaction of shrieking and fussing over it was as much an affectation as her cultured accent, a sort of make up for her personality.
There was a thump as the shovel hit the coffin lid. Rarity didn't shout, or smile. All she did was let out a low hungry growl as she let out a whisper of power and illusion fell away.
It really was quite a useful spell.
She busied herself with clearing away the dirt from the coffin’s lid till she reached the seem that would give her access, and wedged in the blade of the shovel.
The coffin lid was heavy, and Rarity snarled, baring her shark like teeth as she forced it open with creak.
The stench of corruption billowed out like an almost physical force, any normal pony would have retched at it, but Rarity’s mouth watered. Still, the part of her that lived in the sunshine, made dresses and laughed with her friends recoiled.
As much as she tried to be philosophical about it, there was no getting past the sweet, visceral horror of these moments.
Silky Shears must have been dead for quite some time, Rarity guessed at least half a decade. The flesh was putrid, skin sloughing off into a sickening pile. Every instinct she possessed told Rarity to lunge into the feast and gorge herself, but she held back.
She knelt down and closed her oily black eyes and murmured a prayer of thanks to the dead pony, and begged his forgiveness for disturbing his rest. Only then did she begin to feed.
There would be nothing left in the coffin when she was done. Rarity’s metabolism was slow, and mostly magical in nature, a single feast like this would see her through most of a year, and during that time she would be able to eat and drink like a normal pony. In truth she gained no benefit from doing so, took no real nourishment from cakes and salads and whatnot, but she enjoyed them none the less. They could make her believe her own lie.
In time she would get hungry again, and all wholesome food would be as ashes in her mouth, and again she'd look in the mirror at the pale, razor mouthed, black eyed ghoul, but Rarity could cope. She had for years now.
She realized that her mind was drifting down these paths so she wouldn't have to think about the meal she savored now. She liked cakes and pies, but even the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness couldn't compare to the ambrosia that filled her mouth now. The tang and sweetness perfect on her tongue as she savored the reeking, rancid meal.
Her teeth clicked against bone, brittle and soggy and even that simply added a delightful crunch to the feast, they slashed through the bloated, pale flesh at the belly releasing a putrid cloud of built up gas even as she gorged on the sweat meats within which had mostly been reduced to chunky, semi liquid soup.
Ribs cracked and snapped, the heart had gone leathery and was torn apart in thin shreds as she ate.
She didn't know how long she spent down in the grave, feasting on the fetid remains, but too soon she found herself sucking at the smeared and stained lining of the casket. That brought Rarity back to herself. Ghoul she may be, but she still had her pride.
The dressmaker said one final bit of thanks to the pony who had been her meal, and clambered awkwardly out of the grave. Her distended belly made it a bit of a problem, but that would be gone by morning.
Rarity began the task of filling in the grave and slipping back into her lie. She’d practically be bathing in perfume for the next few days, the corpse stink took a lot of covering up.
As she patted down the last few shovels full of dirt she breathed a whisper of power out and her eyes were blue again, her teeth flat. The stains of muck and putrefaction still clung to her coat and mouth, but a bath would soon see to that.
It was nearly dawn, and Rarity was just entering her home, thinking about lies.
Author's Note
Well that was nasty. I'm not really happy with this story, but that's more or less normal for me. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, comments about what a sick fuck I am are not. I'm already well aware of that, thank you very much.
