The Unicorn and the Stranger

Chapters

Melancholy
Crossroad
A Complete Stranger
Insights
Surf
Dangerous
By the Light of the Lantern
Bare
Peace
Everything Will Be Fine
Hope

Melancholy

On the afternoon of the first day, when the train arrived just outside the sleepy coastal town of Portside, there were only a few passengers who stepped out from its few cars — most of which were carrying cargo and mail — and among their number was a unicorn from Ponyville, another village in the Equestrian heartland that was anything but sleepy. Although a white-coated unicorn was not unheard of in Portside, the contrast of that white coat and horn with her curled, violet coiffure and twisting tail drew the eyes of the few residents who bothered to watch the station.

This elegant mare was Rarity Unicorn of Ponyville, known throughout the Equestrian heartland for her acts of heroism as well as her generosity. Portside was not in the heartland, however, and so it was little surprise that the Portsidians did not recognized Rarity even accounting for the distraction provided by the cloud of ten bags and suitcases that followed after her, wrapped in the glow of her pale blue magic and levitating through the air without care. A moment later, any pony that saw her would dismiss the sight as just another Canterlan come to visit their village and packing far, far more than she could have conceivably needed for the trip.

Had she been of the mind to notice, Rarity would have dismissed their own dismissals; after all, who could say what situation would arise while she was on holiday? That, at least, had been the reasoning when she had been packing, although that reasoning was not near the front of her mind as she walked down the thoroughfare with a small frown and a distracted gaze. Her luggage was not at the front of her mind, either, simply carried along out of reflexive habit more than anything. Normally, she might have paid a porter to carry her bags to her hotel, while she went sightseeing, or perhaps acquired lunch, but for a change, she couldn’t bring herself to bother through the fog of melancholy. That melancholy was, after all, the reason she’d come to Portside in the first place.

Pushing the thought from her mind, if only for the moment, and holding her head high, Rarity managed a look of indifference as she approached and reached the hotel that held a reservation in her name. Checking in proved no difficulty, nor did reaching her room and depositing her luggage there, neither of which did anything to improve her mood. Even a small obstacle would have at least allowed her to occupy her mind for a short while. There was nothing to do for it, though, and without anything to keep her at the hotel, she donned a sunhat and locked up her room before she proceeded back to the lobby and then out the front doors.

As she stepped back out onto the street, Rarity managed very much to not have the appearance of melancholy, even though it was just an act. Sightseeing may have lifted her spirits somewhat, but she had already made plans for that the following day and saw no good reason to deviate from her schedule. Rather than exploring the town, she made her way towards the beach instead.

Portside was not a tourist destination by any means; even its museums were small and funded solely by local philanthropy. Accordingly, the sandy shore was almost devoid of bathers, as would be expected for early afternoon on a weekday, and that was exactly what Rarity had hoped for: Without the distraction of large crowds, she could focus solely on her inspiration and perhaps divine where it had gone missing.

But the lack of the distraction of large crowds forced her to focus on her missing inspiration, and she felt her melancholy all the more intensely because of it. When she reached the shore, she walked just to the water’s edge, where the waves would wash just barely over her hooves, and stood for several long minutes, looking out to the horizon. What might she find, if she were to swim beyond it?

Finally, Rarity heaved a heavy sigh, turned and walked further down the beach, away from town, the rolling crash of the ocean her only company.

Crossroad

After several minutes of walking, Rarity had taken herself far down the beach, her hoof steps tracing an even path through the sand where the waves had not come in far enough to wash them away. Unlike her walk through Portside to the shore, however, her head was not held high; she was alone, and there was no need for her to keep up appearances. Instead, her head was lowered somewhat, and she did little more than watch the sand in front of her as she walked.

It was all the more frustrating because there was no reason for her to feel as listless as she did. No one she knew had died, she was not being evicted and was not grossly in debt, and really, nothing was all that bad; it was just a bit of dry weather, as it were. She did not even have looming deadlines to make! Yet here she was, walking forlornly down the beach as if the world had ended.

It was to a bit of quiet relief when she happened to glance further ashore, away from the water, and her head lifted up when she realized just how many trees were growing along the shoreline, back several dozen hoof-widths where the soil must have been firmer. They were not quite as large or tightly packed as she was used to seeing in either the Everfree or Whitetail Woods, and many looked to be of a variety of conifer, or least their leaves were smaller and more slender than the oaks and maples she’d grown up with.

What really caught her attention, however, was the house that sat just in front of the not-quite-a-copse and not-quite-a-forest of trees.

There was nothing terribly remarkable about the house: Wood construction, although that was not a surprise — given the relative abundance of trees along the shoreline — lifted roughly a hoof-width above the ground on several short, blocky stilts, a covered porch made of evenly spaced wooden planks, a door with a knob, and two windows looking out towards the water. It was not very big, with only a single level and gently sloping roof; the perfect size for some solitary pony or other hermit to live by themselves. Against the exterior of one wall was a small stockpile of lamp oil, she noticed.

The sound of splashing drew her attention away from the house — the bungalow, she decided — and to the ocean, where a pony was walking back onto shore ostensibly after swimming, pausing only long enough to shake the worst of the water from their coat like an enormous dog.

Much like the house, there was nothing terribly remarkable about the pony: An earth pony with the curves and shape of a stallion, with a coat the color of the cherry wood floors in her parents’ home and a mane and tail — both cut short, but not adventurously so — that was like maple wood left in the sun to lighten. His mark, she observed, looked like a tree branch, devoid of leaves, being pushed along by a gentle ocean wave.

“Oh!” Rarity quickly turned away from the stallion and faced back towards the small house she assumed was his. “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry! I didn’t realize you were naked!”

“Well, that’s a silly thing to be sorry for!” the stallion replied. “I’m usually naked, and if we’re stating facts here, you’re naked, too.”

“I am not swimming,” Rarity protested, an embarrassed blush spreading across her cheeks.

The stallion barked with laughter just once. “No, you aren’t, and I think I’m finished for the day in any case,” he said, voice drawing closer until, when he spoke again, he was to Rarity’s side. “So, with that in mind, do you think you might be able to look at me? It would certainly make a conversation easier to hold.”

Rarity hesitated for a moment, and then after carefully guarding her emotions, turned to regard the stallion, who at least had the courtesy to stand several hoofs away from her. His eyes, she could now see, were viridian with just a bit more green than she would have otherwise expected, and by reflex, she noted his now complete palette.

“Better,” he said, smiling warmly and calmly. “Now, what is it that’s got you so twisted up inside?”

The shock written across Rarity’s face must have been evident, because as soon as he’d asked the question, the stallion changed his expression from friendly to perplexed. “What, exactly, gives you the idea that there’s something which has me ’twisted up’ as you said?” she asked, trying to deflect his attention. “I was just out for a walk, that’s all. I didn’t even know there was anypony that lived out here.”

As if a switch had been flicked, the smile came back. “Out-of-towner, then?” the stallion asked, receiving a nod in reply. “Then let’s start this correctly. I’m Driftwood, and usually when somepony wanders out this way, it’s because they’re at a crossroad in their life and they aren’t sure what they should do. It’s a pleasure.” He took a step forward and offered his hoof.

Rarity regard the hoof for a moment, and then took a step forward herself and wrapped her own around it to shake. Driftwood’s own shake was firm, but not overpowering in the way that she was accustomed to; it was a nice change. “I’m Rarity,” she said with a smile of her own, even if it felt a bit more forced than she would have preferred. “And I don’t think I’m at a crossroad at all.”

“Of course,” Driftwood replied, a bit more knowingly than Rarity really cared for. “All the same, here you are at my bungalow just as High Summer’s really getting started. Come inside for a bit. I’ll get cleaned up, and then we’ll have some tea and exchange small talk, at least until the sun goes down a bit and the trip back to town won’t be so unbearably hot.”

“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” Rarity said, although she had indeed noticed the rising temperature.

Driftwood rebuffed her objection immediately: “Nonsense! It’s not as if you came by in the middle of the night. Besides, out-of-towners only drop by occasionally, and a newspaper will only tell you so much about the rest of Equestria. Indulge my curiosity?”

“Well, I suppose there’d be no harm,” Rarity conceded, looking away for a moment to think. “Oh, very well, if you insist.”

“Excellent!”

With a happy spring, Driftwood turned and walked on to his bungalow, Rarity falling into step behind and to his left.

A Complete Stranger

A few minutes later, Rarity had settled down one of blankets laid under the shade of Driftwood’s front porch, taking a few minutes to watch the ocean while the stallion in question ‘cleaned up’. When he reappeared those few minutes later, cleaning up had apparently amounted to running a towel through his mane and coat and then quick brushing to dry off and dislodge any salt before he came out with a wooden tray which he deposited between the two blankets. Immediately, the two glasses resting on top of the tray, filled with dark tea, a few ice cubes, a thin wedge of orange and a straw each delivered to Rarity a firm surprise.

“It’s cold,” she said, very much surprised.

“Well, it’s iced tea, so it’d better be cold,” Driftwood replied. “Now, we can get to the matter of that crossroad you seem to think you’re not at.”

Rarity afforded the stallion a look of exasperation. “Are you still going on about that, even after I’ve confirmed I am at no such place?” she asked.

“I’m no fortune teller, Rarity, but I like to think I have an eye for this sort of thing,” Driftwood replied as he settled onto his own blanket. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think that you’re avoiding the topic because it’s something you’re ashamed of or angry about. I think you’re avoiding the topic because you think it’s insignificant and not worth bothering other ponies with, or that you think it’s something you should be able to handle yourself and asking for help feels like saying you’re somehow not a grown mare.”

Rarity was silent after he’d said that, looking straight ahead out at the water. After a moment, she adopted a sad frown. “I suppose that might be it,” she said before frowning deeper. “That must be it. Oh, I haven’t even been able to tell my friends. I love them so, but this is something I’ve fought with before. I shall overcome it. I just don’t know how to, this time.”

“Why not tell me, then?” Driftwood suggested.

Rarity looked at him from the corner of her eye suspiciously. “I can’t bring myself to tell my closest friends. Why would I be able to tell a pony I’ve known not even an hour?”

“Because you’ve known me not even an hour.” Driftwood propped his elbow onto the porch and rested his head on his hoof as he watched her. “We all have things we’re only comfortable talking about to our friends, but then we have things we’re not at all comfortable talking about to our friends. Sometimes the pony we need to talk to most is not a friend, but a complete stranger. Somepony who doesn’t have any past experiences to frame your attitude in, and who isn’t afraid to be unkind if that’s what you really need.”

Once more, Rarity was silent, although she watched her tea this time, rather than the ocean. After a moment, she look up to Driftwood, who sat silently watching her with that same friendly smile he seemed to be fond of. “I’m a modiste,” she decided to say. “I rather think I have exceptional skill, but I still need ideas, and while I have those, it’s as if the portions of my brain which devise them and then transcribe them to a design aren’t communicating.”

“Artist’s block, in other words,” Driftwood replied. “The ideas are there, but you aren’t sure how to express them to the world.”

“In a way, yes, and as I said, I’ve fought with this before.” Rarity’s already crestfallen face fell further. “But I don’t know how to conquer it this time. I’ve tried everything that’s worked in the past, and even some other ideas which I thought were silly, but what else can I do? That’s why I came to Portside in the first place. I thought that if I could see new sights, new arts, without distractions, it may provide the kindling I need.”

Driftwood hummed briefly, before taking his straw in his mouth and sipping his tea.

“Oh, and I suppose you already have something in mind to set me straight,” Rarity said, leveling a suspicious glower at the stallion.

“Sometimes it’s that easy, but usually it’s not,” Driftwood replied after his finished his drink. “Sometimes the first thing works, and sometimes it takes a few tries to figure out what the ticket is. How about this? Tomorrow, follow your schedule. I’m sure you have one already, so follow it. There really are a number of wonderful things in town, maybe even some things you can appreciate that others wouldn’t, coming from a different perspective, and that may be exactly what you need. But whether that’s what you need or not, come back here afterwards for dinner, just as the sun starts to set. If it doesn’t wake up your muse, I may some some other thoughts, and if you don’t need my help after all, I’d like to hear what you think of Portside after you’ve had a chance to actually see it, all the same. Local hospitality.”

“I think that is more than amicable,” Rarity said. A moment later, she managed a smile of her own, small though it was. “Thank you, Driftwood, for lifting my spirits.”

They conversed a time longer, and when the sun had gone down enough, bade each other farewell before Rarity returned to her hotel, feeling renewed confidence for the next day.

Insights

The next evening, just as the sun was beginning to set, Rarity walked forlornly across the sand to Driftwood’s bungalow. She had not had the success she’d hoped for, and a very small part of her was dreading the walk, convinced that he would gloat about her failure to resolve her dilemma, even while the rest of her was certain he would do no such thing, citing as proof that he had encouraged her to follow through in the first place.

Nonetheless, when she came to a stop in front of his door, it was several seconds more before she was able to pull her courage together, raise her hoof, and knock three times.

Rarity had convinced herself that Driftwood would know the truth the moment he opened the door; he’d proven to be quite insightful already. She was surprised — if only just — when he opened the door with a bright smile and welcomed her inside, asking if she would care for some iced tea or perhaps fresh orange juice to drink. She answered only with a simple, “Tea,” as she stepped inside, hooves clacking lightly against the hardwood floor.

As Driftwood went to get Rarity her drink — asking not about her day out, but rather about life in the Midlands — she observed the inside of his abode for the first time, observing her new environment while she answered her host’s questions. It was as simple in as it was out, really just a single room, although it did appear there may have been another room off the right wall, given the presence of a door there. Next to that door was a mattress, resting on the floor, pressed against the wall and neatly made. A short wooden dresser was to the left of the mattress, along the back wall, and to the left of that was another door. To the left of the door was a short pile of small, wood logs and a very old looking and small cast iron stove that gave way into the kitchen, where Driftwood was.

The kitchen itself was composed of little more than a plain, wooden counter and small cupboard with no doors that held plates and drinking glasses. The counter supported a simple wash basin, and several jars of various spices, as well as three large glass jars filled with rice, and two large bowls and a covered skillet that doubtlessly held their dinner. Several pots and more skillets of different sizes were stacked in the corner next to the small icebox that Driftwood was placing the pitcher of tea back in. Rounding out the kitchen was a low, dark wood table that could seat four uncomfortably, but was ideal for two, and that Driftwood was approaching with two glasses of tea balanced on a tray. Already, two table settings were out for them.

To the left of the front door, in the corner was a very old phonograph, and to the right of the front door was a sitting area with several pillows around another low table, all atop a patterned rug that was beginning to fray in several places. The rafters overhead were opened all the way up to the roof, with some slats between them to create space for storage, and a total of three suspended oil lamps for light, although the sunlight coming in through the front windows provided enough illumination for that moment. The air was heavy with the smell of citrus.

It managed to be a bit surprising in how simple it was, and Rarity felt as if she were expecting more, for a reason she could not identify. It was a thought she pushed aside as she approached the kitchen table, Driftwood already setting out dinner as their conversation continued.

The dinner that Driftwood had prepared provided an additional surprise, being a simple fare of rice that had been steamed rather than boiled and barely dusted with finely ground sea salt, fresh spinach with a tiny bit of grated ginger root, green beans and two very small filets of white ocean fish that had been seared and flavored with lemon juice and black pepper — and that Rarity was reluctant to eat until Driftwood convinced her to try a bit. She was surprised once more when she discovered that she rather liked the fish and happily ate the rest.

It reminded her a bit of something that her dear friend Applejack might cook, if only in its simplicity.

After dinner, they made quick work of the dishes despite only have a wash basin to work with, and then retired to the porch to enjoy glasses of iced tea and happily continue their conversation and watch the sun finish its journey across the sky. They had progressed barely one minute into this before Driftwood struck:

“Did you enjoy the museum and galleries?

At the question, the smile on Rarity’s face fell. “No,” she said. “You were right, and there were so many things to see that seemed odd or even ugly until I looked at them differently, but nothing helped. I’m still where I started when I arrived here.”

“Mm,” Driftwood replied, falling silent for a few moments. “But did you enjoy them?”

Rarity herself fell silent for a few moments, and then the corners up her mouth ticked up into a smile once more. “Yes, Driftwood, I did,” she replied. “Thank you for encouraging me to go, even if I had planned to already.”

“I was more than happy to, Rarity,” Driftwood said with his own smile; a smile that did not escape Rarity’s notice.

“Should I take the upturn at the corners of your mouth to mean you now have some insights into what might work?” she asked.

“I have some insights into what hasn’t worked, and that’s often better,” Driftwood replied. “Once you’ve eliminated the credible, then whatever remains, however incredible, must be the answer.” He gave a nod, and Rarity raised a hoof to her lips to contain her giggles. “What?” asked Driftwood.

“Nothing,” Rarity replied as she recomposed herself, a small smile still gracing her features. “You remind me of a friend back in Ponyville.”

Driftwood smiled in return. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “But really, I do have some thoughts, something to try, at least. Come back here tomorrow morning about…” He paused for a moment, glancing up to the ceiling of the porch as he thought. “Eight o’clock. And do not eat breakfast before, not even a piece of toast. I’ll take care of breakfast. And above all else, bring your bathing suit.”

“Oh? Is that your plan, then? A swim in the ocean?” Rarity asked.

“Something like that.”

They raised their glasses and toasted to bright futures.

Surf

The next morning, after sunrise but not long after, Rarity completed her trek down the beach to Driftwood’s bungalow with markedly more confidence than she had the previous two days. Rather than a hat, she’d opted for the sunglasses she’d packed, while her flanks were partially covered by a small pair of saddlebags. She’d brought no other luggage, not seeing she’d have an occasion to need it, although she’d brought some makeup with her. Makeup that she was not wearing, with the sunglasses — oversized as they were — serving the secondary purpose of distracting from the fact that she was not. If she was to swim in the sea, there was no sense in putting in the work when it would be shortly washed away. She had still put some effort into her mane, of course; no sense in dispensing with effort completely, after all.

On reaching the door, she raised her hoof and knocked, wondering the same thought she’d been wondering since she awoke and trying to puzzle out what sort of thing was ‘like’ swimming in the ocean. When Driftwood answered the door, Rarity observed that he looked already prepared for the day’s activities, a pair of red trunks with white trim covering his hindquarters — two white buttons on the side, she saw. With a happy smile, he welcomed her in, claiming breakfast would be ready shortly.

Rarity deposited her saddlebags by the door and took a seat at the table while Driftwood finished mixing some concoction in a hoof-operated blender. The resulting green-colored elixir was drinkable, if not especially tasty, although Rarity’s opinion of it did not improve when it was revealed to contain raw eggs. By the time that had come to light, however, she’d already finished her glass, so there was nothing to be done for it.

They chatted for a few minutes after that, although Driftwood was adamant about not revealing his plan for Rarity. Finally, he declared that it was time, and directed her attention to the door off the sleeping area; the washroom. “I’ll be waiting outside,” he added, before rising from the table and moving towards the front door. Eager to see what he had in mind, Rarity retrieved her bags and entered the washroom.

Inside was very well lit, thanks to a large — for a one-pony washroom — window. The glass was frosted to prevent anything outside from getting an eyeful, but there were no curtains and no sink, only a bath tub to the left that, although it possessed a faucet and, presumably, hot water, was clearly not intended for soaking. Driftwood obviously did not spend more time in his washroom than was strictly necessary, and the lack of a toilet made it clear that he ‘roughed it’ as much as possible. Given his apparently frugal lifestyle, this itself seemed like a necessity, rather than a choice. Pushing the thought aside, she reached into her bag with her magic, bringing her shorts out a moment later. With a quick, practiced motion, she stepped into them, pulled them up over her hindquarters, and fastened the two buttons on the side.

Unlike Driftwood’s trunks, which covered his hind legs down to the hock, Rarity’s sapphire blue shorts were cut much higher, exposing her legs in full and part of her haunches as well, her cutie mark partially visible. It was not the most modest bathing suit she could have worn, but hardly the most risqué either. Electing not to spend time considering the merits and demerits of her choice in bathing suits, she smoothed a few wrinkles from the material before exiting the washroom and then exiting the bungalow to look for Driftwood.

She did not have to look for more than a moment before she saw him, but it wasn’t Driftwood that caught her eye immediately. Rather, it was the long, flat piece of polished wood — easily three pony-lengths from end to end — that was balanced across his back. She didn’t bother with trying to identify the type of wood, focused wholly on what it was even for. “What is that, exactly?” she asked.

“This, dear Rarity, is a surfboard,” Driftwood replied, to which Rarity wrinkled her nose.

“Do you expect me to ride it?” she asked, to which Driftwood nodded.

“Not by yourself, obviously, but yes, I expect you to ride it,” he answered. When he observed the expression on Rarity’s face, he added, “You don’t seem convinced.”

“I’m not convinced,” Rarity said. “At least, not convinced that this will help me. Perhaps if you could explain?”

“What’s to explain?” Driftwood replied, resting one end of the surfboard on the sand. “Surfing sharpens the mind, focuses the soul, and invigorates the body. If you ask me, there’s no better exercise than that.”

Rarity was even less convinced at that. “Exercise? Driftwood, I can’t say that I’m eager to sweat in front of a stallion I’ve only just met,” she said.

“Rarity, what is sweat made of, primarily?” Driftwood asked suddenly.

“Well, there are several components to it, I think, but if I recall, it’s predominantly salt water?” Rarity answered, unsure of herself. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“What’s the ocean made of?”

“Salt water….” Rarity trailed off, and then heaved a heavy sigh. “Oh, I suppose I see your point. If I’m to be covered in salt one way or the other, I may as well indulge you.”

Still wearing a smile, Driftwood slid the surfboard across his back once again, and with precision that had to be practiced, turned around and walked with it out to the shallows. Once the board was floating happily, he held it steady while Rarity unsteadily climbed on, and then clambered on after her before paddling it out to deeper water. The waves were not small, but they were not enormous either, and the surf was calm. Driftwood seemed eager to capitalize on this fact, almost immediately turning and paddling them onto a swell that they easily rolled over the top of, barely moving forward at all, even if the sudden motion still caught Rarity off-guard. When they stopped moving, he would turn them around and paddle them back out — Rarity eventually assisting when she felt more stable on the board — and then drift over the top of another swell.

After several minutes of nothing but that, Rarity finally thought to ask, “What are we doing, exactly?”

“Warming up,” Driftwood replied. “But we’re finished with that for now.”

Rarity hesitated for a moment. “What happens next?” she asked warily.

“Next, we actually try to surf,” he said. In the next instant, he was turning the board around and paddling back out to deeper water. “The waves are pretty gentle today, so there shouldn’t be any difficulties there. I’ll handle all the steering and everything, so you don’t need to worry about that, OK?”

“OK,” Rarity replied uncertainly.

“The biggest risk here is that we might wipe out,” Driftwood said again. “But the water’s calm enough and I’m experienced enough that it shouldn’t happen, but I know what it feels like. If I tell you to jump, then I want you to jump off the board and to the right. Only to the right, and I’ll jump to the left, OK?”

“OK,” Rarity replied uncertainly. A moment later, she felt a hoof resting on her back, and she turned to look back at Driftwood.

“Everything will be fine,” he said with a glowing smile, and although she still felt uncertain about the whole adventure, her nerves settled.

Turning her gaze forward again, Rarity helped Driftwood paddle both of them back to deeper water, turn around, and wait. After a minute had passed, she concluded that surfing involved a lot of waiting, although not because nothing was happening. There were plenty of waves, but many of them started breaking too close to shore and they weren’t able to catch them. Several more had seemed promising until Driftwood decided to let them pass underneath, before turning around and paddling back out to wait. “Not this one,” he would say.

But finally, after what Rarity was certain was several minutes, she heard Driftwood start to paddle, and then start to paddle harder. “This one,” he said.

When she felt the wave beginning to pick them up, Rarity chanced a nervous look over her shoulder. The moment that she did, Driftwood — who looked to be paying all his attention to what he was doing and none to her — suddenly pushed himself up to his hooves and immediately lurched to stand on his hind legs. The surfboard turned rapidly to the side as he did, and Rarity’s attention snapped forward again, her heart momentarily in her throat as she thought she’d slide into the ocean.

True to Driftwood’s word, they did not ‘wipe out’, despite how swiftly they were moving along the water’s surface and despite the slightly rough ride that always felt just barely controlled to his passenger. Rarity let out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding when they came to the shallows again and finally slowed down. Without wasting a moment, she sprung to her own hooves and jumped back onto solid ground, even as the water came up to her knees.

Driftwood slid off the board and into the water much more sedately. “So, what did you think? Enjoy the ride?” he asked.

“I think you should have given me warning,” Rarity answered. “Warning that we’d move so quickly, or that you intended to turn sharply and steer so erratically. I thought I would fall off for certain! And you’re asking me if I enjoyed it?”

Driftwood continued to look at her, a smug grin on his face. “Did you?” he asked again.

“Oh, so very much!” Rarity smiled brightly and clapped her hooves together in her excitement, flinging droplets of water into the air. “How we glided along the water. It reminded me of flying. The few times I have been at least. When I was being carried, I mean.” The longer she spoke, the more she calmed down, until she was doing nothing more but looking at Driftwood with a shy smile. “Perhaps we might go again?”

Still wearing a smile of his own, Driftwood watched Rarity for a moment, all but basking in the small joy she felt. “As you wish,” he finally said, and with a few strokes through the water, he turned them around, and Rarity helped bring the surfboard back out to deeper water, and they continued to ride the waves until their stomachs demanded a proper breakfast.

Dangerous

The next morning, Rarity checked out of her hotel and had her luggage brought to Driftwood’s bungalow. He had insisted that since she was closer to finding what she was looking for on the ocean than in town, she should be as close to it as possible, in case of any sudden epiphanies. Concerns over sleeping arrangements were waved away, and he'd brought out a small mattress he kept around ‘just in case’.

After a light breakfast, they went into the surf again, Rarity carrying a board of her own this time, and they quickly lost track of the day until the summer sun above them grew too hot, even in the cool water, and they retired back to the bungalow to clean up and eat lunch.

When the afternoon had cooled, they walked into town rather than going back into the ocean. Driftwood purchased only two tomatoes and a loaf of bread, while Rarity decided to splurge on a bottle of fine wine.

They returned to the bungalow just as the sun was beginning to set, and promptly set to dinner, enjoying the bread, a salad of lettuce and mustard greens with the tomatoes and carrots and sautéed squash and onion served over rice, the kitchen and stove barely big enough for all of it.

After dinner, they retired to the porch to enjoy their wine and watch the sun finish setting, listening to music played on the very old phonograph. It was just after sunset that, without fanfare — somewhat uncharacteristic for her, it was decided later — Rarity leaned forwards and, closing her eyes, gently pressed her lips against Driftwood’s. The feeling was not electric to start with, neither did it become so when he almost immediately leaned back into her just as gently, but it was warm and welcoming and inviting, and remained so until Driftwood softly laid a hoof on her shoulder and pushed her slowly away.

“Driftwood?” Rarity asked, more bewildered than hurt.

“Are you sure about me, Rarity?” he asked in return. “I’m not like those glitzy Canterlan stallions I'm sure you have eyes for at all. You've seen how I live, and I barely have any money, and while I'm feeling especially proud of my charms at this moment, those won't buy you any of the life or things a mare like you deserves.”

Rarity smiled softly at Driftwood's self-deprecation. “I have seen how you live, and I know you barely have any money," she replied, laying a hoof across her breast. "But you've touched my heart in a way only a few others have, and touched it honestly. Money will buy things, yes, but it won't ever buy fondness, and I am very fond of you.”

Driftwood smiled widely, but quickly steeled his gaze. “There is more,” he said. “Something you absolutely have to know about me before your decision can be in any way informed, and if you mean this, and you really choose me, then I refuse to deceive you.”

“Darling, so long as you don’t mean to murder me or have intentions towards my dear younger sister, I doubt what you say will change my mind,” Rarity said.

Driftwood hesitated for a moment, and then rose up from his resting spot, walking to the door before looking back to Rarity. “Inside, first,” he said. “What I have to tell you, it’s a secret to everyone.”

Knitting her brow, Rarity stood up and followed him inside, closing the door after herself. Unable to stand still, Driftwood had walked to left wall where the old phonograph sat, lifting the needle from the record as Rarity approached his side. “Driftwood? What is it?” she asked softly.

Taking a deep breath, the earth pony turned to her with barely concealed worry and said but four words:

“I am a changeling.”

Rarity froze, eyes wide, uncertain of how she should feel; truthfully, she felt like a gazelle that had just discovered the individual she had intentions for was a lion. Her gaze drew enough steel into it to match Driftwood’s, and then grew harder. “Driftwood, that joke is in poor taste, and not at all funny.”

“You’re right.” Driftwood's answer was immediate and without hesitation. “It would be in poor taste, and it wouldn’t be funny, and that's why I’m not joking. I’m a changeling, Rarity. I’ve always been one, and the earth pony called Driftwood is a product of my imagination, a set of clothing I wear to fit in. What do you think of me now?”

Rarity was uncertain what she should think, exactly. After a moment, she took a deep breath set her jaw. “Prove it,” she said. “Change.”

Driftwood was quiet for a time. “As it is, we can still pretend this isn’t true. We can’t pretend nothing is different, but we can pretend that I’m not a changeling,” he said nervously. “If I change, that’s it. There’s no more pretending.”

The feeling in Rarity’s chest matched the one in Driftwood’s voice. “If you change,” she said.

Driftwood sighed forlornly, and green fire washed over his body. When the flames disappeared, the earth pony was gone, and a changeling had replaced him, dark chitin and everything else — nearly, at least — that came with it, and Rarity, wide-eyed, immediately backed into the wall trying to move away to someplace safer. For what was surely a long time, neither of them moved.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Rarity,” the changeling — Driftwood — said. “I won’t hurt you, and even if I wanted to, then showing myself was a poorly thought out way of doing that.”

As the shock and fear Rarity felt made way for more useful thoughts — those of escape — they also made way for the betrayal of cold logic. Whatever her feelings about the honesty of changelings, Driftwood at least had told her an absolute truth: If he meant to harm her in any way, revealing his true nature when he otherwise had her trapped was a terrible misstep, and the fact that he brought this to her attention immediately made it unlikely that it was accidental. There was something larger at play, no doubt.

Perhaps it had something to do with his appearance, for although he possessed the sleek, grey-black body she recognized from Canterlot, he still possessed the same mane he’d had before — with the same color of sun-lightened maple wood — even if it hung limply from his head like a sheet, and rather than featureless pools, his eyes retained their dark viridian irises, even if the pupils had turned to slits like those of a cat or dragon. He looked less like the majority of changelings she had seen previously, and more like their fell queen. There had to be something larger at play.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice smaller than she meant for it to be.

Driftwood was unmoved by the question. “I believe I’ve already explained myself,” he answered.

“Please, explain yourself again,” Rarity said, with more confidence than she’d had a moment earlier.

“If you really chose me, and I feel that at least for a little bit, you did, then I refuse to deceive you. You bared yourself to me, so here am I. My truth, laid bare.”

Rarity’s mind raced, searching for the angle she was missing. She could not help her gaze traveling towards the front door any more than Driftwood could help noticing her do so.

“I would prefer you didn’t leave,” Driftwood said suddenly.

Instantly, Rarity’s ire was focused on him again. “I am your prisoner, then?”

Driftwood kept his gaze steady, even as a frown tugged at his mouth, when he answered. “You might tell my neighbors and burn my house to the ground,” he replied. “I’ve heard that’s been the typical response lately.”

For a moment, Rarity forgot to be afraid and lunged towards the changeling. “Do you really believe I would do something like that?!” she demanded.

“Did you really believe I would intentionally hurt you?” Driftwood asked in response, far too evenly for Rarity’s liking.

“That’s different!” she shrieked.

“How?”

“Because!” Rarity bit off her response before she voiced it. Driftwood was a changeling, that was true, but as an answer, that wasn’t quite enough. Because he had lied to her? That was also — and unsurprisingly — true; he was a changeling, and while she couldn’t fault him for conforming to his natural instincts, that still left her at square one. She moved her attention to the wall, unexpectedly taking interest in a particular imperfection in the wood. Because he had wormed her feelings out of her? Again, he was a changeling, but more so, baring those feelings to him had enabled her to confront and largely conquer them. A few other reasons strayed into her mind, only to be immediately dismissed because they were too absurd to even bother repeating.

“Very well. It’s not different, and I won’t leave,” she decided, glaring at Driftwood again. “But I demand that you leave my presence so that I may think!”

Driftwood did not immediately react to Rarity’s order, but stood still and watched her for several seconds. “As you wish” he finally said, turning and walking to the front door. Before he reached it, he stopped again. “Rarity? You do know that I’m not dangerous, don’t you? That I’m telling you what I am so you’ll understand the situation?”

“It brings me no great comfort to know a changeling believes itself to not be dangerous,” Rarity replied.

Driftwood’s gaze returned to the door. “No more dangerous than you are,” he said. Then, he opened the door and stepped outside, leaving Rarity alone to think.

By the Light of the Lantern

Later that night, Rarity awoke with a start. She hadn't meant to fall asleep — certainly not when there was a changeling in residence — but it had happened anyway. It also seemed not to matter, for she found herself in surroundings as familiar as she could have hoped, recognizing her resting place as Driftwood's bed. The changeling himself was not inside with her, which gave Rarity senses of both relief and worry.

The front door of the bungalow was opened, and she could see the dark shape of Driftwood laying on the sand out front of it, illuminated by the low, flicking light of a lantern. With a steadying breath, Rarity rose and quietly approached, observing as Driftwood's ears — if, indeed, changelings had ears — swiveled back as she stepped onto the sand, even if he did not otherwise acknowledge her presence. He was watching the ocean, and continued to watch the ocean when she came to a stop next to him.

“May I ask what you're doing?” she asked. “And why you’re doing it where somepony might see you out of disguise?”

“I’m keeping watch for them, so they won’t lose the way,” came the reply. “We spend so much time in disguise. We don’t wear disguises for this. It’d be disrespectful.”

Rarity considered this for a moment. It didn’t make much sense on its surface, and resolving to hear a fuller explanation, she settled down onto the sand beside the changeling. “Who were they?” she asked.

Driftwood was silent for a few moments, and then he turned his attention from the ocean to the unicorn beside him, not reacting when she flinched just slightly. “What happens to a pony when they die, Rarity? Do they all go to Elysium?”

“Most do,” Rarity replied, turning her own attention to the ocean. “But I suppose if they were sufficiently wicked, they would go to Tartarus instead.”

Driftwood nodded, the action visible only in Rarity’s peripheral, and looked to the ocean again himself. “What ponies would call ‘Tartarus’, changelings call ‘Gehenna’, and while ponies go to Tartarus only in the next life, changelings are in Gehenna in this life.”

Rarity was immediately shaken by this, and turned her attention back to Driftwood. “That is what changelings believe? That they are born into a life of punishment and suffering?” she asked, aghast.

Driftwood gave his shoulders a small, indifferent roll. “Can you refute that belief?” he replied. “I could feel your revulsion when I revealed myself to you. We’re horrible to look at by the standards of most creatures. Ponies think of us as parasites, or even predators, and they think our shapechanging to try and hide how horrible we look is deceitful, even with all the bits and effort they spend on makeup and clothing and extra houses. A changeling that’s known to be a changeling is rarely safe for very long, so we spend most of our lives hiding, pretending to be something we aren’t as if we had a choice. An entire culture that considers forthrightness a virtue, forced into telling lie after lie, just to survive until the next sunrise so the cycle can repeat, until the last changeling is gone. Doesn’t that sound like Gehenna? Like Tartarus?”

Rarity watched Driftwood, still shaken. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and asked, “What happens to changelings when they die? Do they stay in Gehenna?”

“Most do,” Driftwood replied, turning his attention back to Rarity. “But some are fortunate and find the way back to Shamayim.”

“Is that what a pony would call ‘Elysium’?”

“It’s where we come from, where we hope to go back to.” Driftwood heaved a heavy sigh. “No one knows why we were banished. Maybe all changelings were ‘especially wicked’ then. Maybe it was just a few of us, or two, or one, it doesn’t matter. We aren’t there anymore, and all we can do is hope that when we die here, we don’t come back here.”

Driftwood fell silent, having nothing further to say on the subject, and Rarity fell silent, having a good deal to consider. Both of them looked out at the ocean again. After nearly half a minute, she thought of a new question: “Is the lantern to help the dead find their way? Back to... Shamayim?”

Driftwood remained silent for a few moments, cocking his head to one side while he thought. “When a changeling is dying, we gather around them. Their family, or friends, or even another stranger hoping to go home, and whoever sits at their head will light their horn. We hope it lights the way,” he said. “But we need love to live, and even lighting my horn would burn the love I have, like a candle. I know some unicorn magic, so every night, I come out here and light this lantern with it and hope that it lights the way for the changelings who die alone.”

“So that even the ones who don’t have somepony to light their way might still return home?” Rarity offered as an ending to Driftwood's words.

“Yes.”

Once more, they both fell into silence, until it was broken by Driftwood. “Rarity, I know I haven’t done much to endear myself to you, and I won’t blame you if you’ve decided to leave,” he said. “But will you stay with me for a bit? At least until the lantern burns out?”

Without a word, Rarity stood up from the sand just long enough to move and lay down again, pressed against Driftwood. They both remained silent, watching the ocean by the light of the lantern.

Bare

Shortly after she stepped outside, Rarity followed Driftwood back into his bungalow, the extinguished lantern shining with acid green magic as it drifted through the air before coming to a rest just inside the front door. While he made his way into the kitchen, she made sure the door was shut behind them, and then looked to the changeling and gave voice to a question that had been turning over in her head: “Why?”

Just past the table, Driftwood and looked back over his shoulder to her. “Why what?” he asked.

“Why do changelings hide? Why not approach ponies and tell them of your plight? Why not go to the Princesses? You confided in me. Surely there are other who’ve thought to do the same.”

Driftwood sighed. “I took a big risk telling you, Rarity,” he said. “This is your land. This is your home, and I’m just a stranger here. All of us are. Our lies go back further than any of us can remember and the land reminds us constantly. The windigos nearly ended us. Discord nearly ended us. It’s not hard to believe that ponies, or griffons, or any creature that isn’t a changeling will finally succeed where everything else has failed.”

“But why not ask ponies to help?” Rarity asked. “Everything you’ve told me, if you told the Princesses, they would help. There are special circumstances, they wouldn’t hold Canterlot against you.”

“Spoken like a pony, of course,” Driftwood replied, opening the icebox. The pitcher of iced tea deftly slid out, sheathed in magic.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Rarity asked with an edge of more than just irritation in her voice.

“It means what it sounds like,” Driftwood said in response. With the pitcher gripped in his magic, he carefully poured two glasses of iced tea before returning the larger vessel to the icebox. “You suggested that even with everything changelings have done, ponies would forgive all of it and help us. Of course a pony would suggest forgiveness. Ponies believe in forgiveness. Changelings believe in guilt.”

Rarity turned her attention down to the table, sitting in quiet thought as one glass came to rest in front of her. “You’ll all just suffer in silence, then?” She idly watched her tea.

“It’s what we’ve always done,” Driftwood replied.

Silence fell over the conversation, Rarity watching her drink, and Driftwood watching Rarity.

“Driftwood?” she said at last, looking up from her tea. “May I touch you?”

The admittedly odd request left Driftwood momentarily off-guard, but just momentarily. “You may, if you want to,” he answered.

With no more than a shallow nod, Rarity rose from her seat — the action copied by the changeling across from her — and walked around the table to Driftwood’s side. It felt as though a moth was fluttering around in her stomach, and for what reason? She had just been laying next to him only a few minutes earlier and hadn’t felt a thing! With a deep breath, the moth disappeared, and she focused on Driftwood once again. Although he was watching her, it was with curiosity at what she meant to do. He stood very still, waiting. With another breath, Rarity lifted a hoof and laid it gently on Driftwood’s shoulder.

“Oh,” said Rarity. He had felt hard earlier, but then, they were laying down, and she had been pressed against the carapace on his back. Shifting from her hoof to her fetlock — trained to be very sensitive and best for testing fabrics — she observed something very important.

“This isn’t what I expected. I thought there would be plates, but you feel…,” She paused for a moment. “Almost scaly. You feel very firm, but not hard, and your skin is rough.” Her touch drifted further down his body, to the shiny, indigo carapace of his back. “This feels like plates, though. Is to protect you?”

“It might be,” Driftwood remarked, still standing stock still as if he were being fitted for a suit. “I’ve heard that it does well enough against spears and griffon talons. I’ve never been keen to find out for myself.”

“And your wings?”

“You may touch them. You probably won’t hurt them, but please be careful.”

Gingerly, Rarity ran her fetlock over the top of Driftwood’s translucent wing. “Oh my, it’s not gossamer at all,” she observed. “It’s quite rigid.”

“It needs to hold its shape while we fly and glide,” Driftwood explained.

Rarity made only a low sound of acknowledgement as she slid her arm back to Driftwood’s shoulder. “May I see your hoof?” she asked.

“Tarsus,” Driftwood corrected, nevertheless lifting his arm and offering the end to her. “Ponies have hooves. Changelings have tarsi.”

“Oh?” Rarity paused at that. She considered Driftwood’s limb. “I think I’d heard that the tarsus was the end of a crab’s leg?”

“It is, but it’s also the end of the leg for spiders and damselflies, and we have more in common with them than we do with crabs.”

Rarity giggled. “The damselfly, I suppose I can see, but you don’t look at all like a spider, aside from your fangs, perhaps. And scaling walls like one, I suppose,” she said.

“I suppose.”

A companionable silence came and lasted several seconds while unicorn examined changeling, idly wondering if she might see the tiny claws that gripped to walls. “And your mane?” Rarity asked, releasing Driftwood’s tarsus back to him.

“Go ahead.”

Confidence growing every moment, Rarity’s hoof next went to Driftwood’s head, brushing along the seemingly delicate hair. “It’s so soft,” she said with some surprise. “Almost like silk.”

“That’s what we call it. Like spider silk, I’m told, although I don’t think that’s correct,” Driftwood replied.

“You’re the first I’ve seen with it, other than that dreadful…” The sentence was never finished, Driftwood seemingly unwilling to answer, and Rarity unwilling to ask again when she felt the changeling very noticeably tense at the implied identification. She had, she realized, touched upon a very sensitive topic.

“I understand that pony soldiers often cut their manes very short,” Driftwood said after a moment. “To present an image of discipline and to reduce risk in battle and promote hygiene.”

That was good enough for Rarity, her hoof slowly drifting down from Driftwood’s head to his shoulder, and then back to the floor. “Are your fangs envenomed?” she asked.

“No,” Driftwood replied, shaking his head.

Rarity stepped around to stand before Driftwood, their faces just inches apart. “May I kiss you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Driftwood replied, nodding his head.

In the blink of an eye, Rarity closed the gap between them and pressed her lips against Driftwood’s just as gingerly as she had earlier, and when he almost immediately leaned back into her, one kiss quickly turned to many before Rarity threw her arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Driftwood,” she said with a shaky voice. “I was so, so awful to you.”

“It’s alright, Rarity,” Driftwood replied, snaking his own arms around Rarity and holding her tightly. “I forgive you.”

Rarity stifled a choking laugh and momentarily squeezed more tightly. “I thought changelings didn’t believe in forgiveness,” she said.

“We don’t. But you do, and saying that I forgive you is the easiest way to say that I hold nothing against you.”

Rarity waited several more seconds before saying, “I think I understand now,” as she pulled back from the embrace enough to look Driftwood in the eye. “You lied to me, and I don’t forgive you for it. But it’s already done, and you aren’t lying to me now, so I hold nothing against you.”

The changeling smiled somewhat sadly. “That doesn’t sound like a pony at all,” he said.

“But it sounds like a changeling, doesn’t it?” Rarity asked, raising a hoof to Driftwood’s face and gently rubbing her fetlock against his cheek. “You feel the guilt of others, don’t you? You know when they truly regret something they’ve done, and that’s why you don’t believe in forgiveness. I do believe in forgiveness, but I believe in trust, also, and I think that you do, too. You trusted me with a secret that could be your undoing. I trust you with my heart.”

Driftwood kissed Rarity then, just as gently as she had kissed him, and pulled her into another embrace that she happily returned. “I will not hide from you ever again.”

It was several more seconds before their embrace was broken, again by Rarity. “Darling, my heart is racing from all this, and I doubt very much that any tea, no matter how iced, will cool it off. Will you join me for a swim?” she said.

“Rarity, I’d be delighted to join you for a swim,” Driftwood replied with a smile. “I imagine our bathing suits must be dry enough by now.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. I was thinking that we may just do without,” Rarity responded in kind, earning a quirked brow from her companion.

“Without your bathing suit?” Driftwood asked with a smirk. “Aren’t we adventurous all of a sudden?”

“Darling, we’ve bared our secrets and souls to each other!” Rarity replied happily. “I should hardly think that we need be concerned about baring anything more.”

With the smallest chuckle, Driftwood followed Rarity out the door and down to the water, both as bare as if they planned to walk into town.

Peace

On the morning of the final day, Rarity awoke and felt a deep sense of peace.

With her late night swim unrestrained by modesty, she learned that Driftwood was an accomplished swimmer while she was not, although he admitted to being something of an aberration in that regard.

They laughed and played in the gentle surf until well after midnight before they returned to the bungalow.

They bathed and scrubbed the salt from each others’ bodies, tiny hooks underneath Driftwood’s tarsi sifting through Rarity’s fur like the teeth of a fine comb.

They made love and fell asleep curled against one another, each breathing soft lullabies.

And here they were, still curled against one another while the ocean waves gently rolled in the distance, the glimmers of ideas and designs drifting into the unicorn’s mind like motes of dust suspended in a sunbeam. There would be time for that later. She’d found her inspiration, yes, but perhaps against even greater odds, she had found her prince, even if he wasn’t quite what she’d always envisioned.

There would be time for that later as well.

Rarity shifted against the changeling pressed into her back, saying, “Driftwood?”

Driftwood shifted against her in response, and then opened his mouth in a wide yawn and seemed to settle back to sleep. “Mmhm?” he asked, even if it was more of a noise than an actual question.

“It’s morning,” Rarity replied. “And while I can’t speak for you, I believe it’s almost time for breakfast.

“Mm,” Driftwood said, even though it was just a a noise and not an actual word. “And what better breakfast than a beautiful mare?” Without warning, he leaned his head up and nipped rapidly at Rarity’s neck, sending her into a fit of ticklish giggles. “Num num num num num!”

“Oh, you wicked brute!” Rarity managed to say in between giggling and attempting to squirm away. It was fortunately an attempt of short-lived necessity, as Driftwood stopped only a moment later and laid his head on her shoulder with a sigh of contentment. Breakfast, Rarity decided, could also wait just a bit longer.

“You’re right, though, I think.” Driftwood slid just a fraction of an inch away from Rarity, tossed the sheet off himself and then rolled onto his stomach, turning his head back towards her just as she turned hers to him. “It is about breakfast time.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Rarity replied happily. “You’ve taken such wonderful care of me these past few days, I’m rather eager to finally return the favor.” As she started to get up from bed, Driftwood placed a tarsus on her shoulder.

“Rarity, your sentiment is appreciated, but this is my house, and I will not be a poor host, especially not to you, no matter what,” the changeling said affirmatively. He rose from the bed and, stepping onto the floor, stretched his body as a cat might. “But I like to think I know you pretty well by now, so if you feel you must do something, why not go to the trees out back and pick some oranges? We’ll have fresh juice with breakfast.”

“Oh, fresh orange juice does sound lovely,” Rarity replied, rising from the tangle of sheets herself. Without even thinking, her horn flared to life and the shimmer of magic surrounded the bedsheets, and in seconds, it was made. “No pulpy vegetable juice today, then?”

“I was thinking something a bit richer for today. Something to celebrate,” Driftwood said as he moved towards his kitchen. Rarity followed after him a moment later.

“I’m certain it will be wonderful,” she said. Next to the backdoor was a small wicker basket that hopped into the air almost happily when her magic touched it. She paused at the door momentarily, realizing she was about to step outside with no makeup on and with no styling to her mane, but easily dismissed the thought; she was only going out to the garden, and the bungalow was so far from town she was only running the risk of Driftwood seeing her. Besides having seen her without makeup already, he’d been with her far more intimately than a conversation, so what did it matter? “Back in just a moment, darling,” opening the door and stepping out to the garden.

The moment she stepped outside, it seemed apparent to Rarity that the small grove of orange trees behind the bungalow was not any kind of garden at all. The trees were arranged irregularly — hardly seeming arranged at all — and scattered around somewhat sparsely were wildflowers and even a few small bushes covered in tiny, bright red berries, and for a few moments, she thought everything to be wild. Then, she noticed several somewhat organized plants bearing summer squashes with shoots of green beans growing around them. There were large boxes of soil raised off the ground that held leafy greens, likely the lettuce, spinach and mustard she had been eating with Driftwood, as well as onions and several other vegetables she could not immediately identify. The ground had been picked free of weeds and fallen fruit, and on a second glance, the trees had been pruned, if only just enough. Bees flittered here and there among the flowers, and placed in several location about the area were large but very shallow troughs, some of which held water. Sea water, she realized, that had been left to evaporate, humidifying the air and giving Driftwood a relatively steady supply of salt to harvest and perhaps to sell.

For a changeling, he really did make a fine earth pony.

Breathing the fragrant air deeply, Rarity stepped into the grove proper — mindful not to disturb the bees or any of the other plants — and inspected the trees, finding several ripe oranges in short order and adding them to her basket before taking a few moments more to admire the landscape around her.

It was not until her eyes caught movement and the sunlight glinting off golden metal that she realized she was not alone.

Everything Will Be Fine

Only a few minutes after she stepped outside, Rarity came back into the bungalow carrying a small basket full of oranges and trying — and largely succeeding — to hide her nervousness. “Driftwood?” she said as the changeling came into view. He had just tossed a small log into his small stove, although had not yet lit it, and to the unicorn’s relief, was in his disguise. “It turns out we have company. A pair of Royal Guards, all the way from Canterlot.”

Sure enough, heavy hoofbeats sounded behind Rarity as she moved to Driftwood’s side, and two armored Guardsponies — both unicorns — entered the bungalow after her, stopping a short distance away and standing abreast.

“Oh?” Driftwood asked, turning away from the stove to look at Rarity, and then behind him, examining the Guards curiously. Rarity was internally grateful when he seemed to devise some sort of plan to deal with the situation, although she noted the slightest bit of jitters in his tail. “Are they friends of yours? Will they be joining us for breakfast?”

His answer came in the form of the sound of metal sliding against canvas as the first Guard to enter — now standing before them and to the right — called on his magic to levitate a metal rod with small gem set in its head from a holster at his side. Rarity was admittedly at a loss for how she had missed it earlier, but pushed the thought aside in favor of curiosity when the gem was directed towards Driftwood and it began to glow with a happy blue light.

“Is that what I think it is?” Driftwood asked, turning to face the Guards fully. Rarity turned her attention to him, and while he was regarding the device much like she had been, his expression was not one of curiosity; it was of resignation, with a sad smile.

The Guard who was levitating the device looked up from it, and then moved it over to Rarity. Immediately, it ceased to emit any kind of light.

“It is,” Driftwood concluded, hanging his head with a frown. An instant later, green fire danced along his form as his disguise melted away.

Rarity looked back to the Guards, panic evident on her face. “It’s not what it looks like,” she said quickly. “I’m under no compulsion of any sort.”

“We know,” replied the Guard with the changeling-detector. The thing drifted away and back into the small holster at his side. “But all the same, please stand aside.”

For a moment, Rarity stared helplessly before her resolve solidified and she moved even closer to Driftwood, pressing against him and speaking only a single word: “No.”

The Guards were surprised somewhat less than Driftwood was. “Rarity?” he asked, confused as he looked to her for an explanation.

“Miss Rarity, I don’t know what you believe you’re doing, but you need to move aside. This changeling is under arrest and bound for Canterlot,” said the Guard again, as if hoping that might somehow dissuade her from further obstruction.

“Under arrest,” Rarity repeated acidly, not dissuaded in the least. “On what charge, exactly? What crime has he been accused of committing?”

“Miss Rarity, that is privileged information,” said the Guard whom, so far, had done all of the talking.

“It is not, and you know it’s not!”

Both Guards tensed and adopted wider stances with horns lowered at Rarity’s rather sudden outburst, and she had largely done the same. Driftwood tensed too, and shrank away a bit, surprised at how quickly the ‘proper lady’ he’d come to know had vanished. “You may not be Sheriffs, but you are still bound by law,” continued Rarity. “And the law is clear. It is a pony’s right to know the charges leveled against him when he is accused and arrested.”

“That is not a pony, Miss Rarity,” said the same Guard. Rarity was anything but amused.

“Suppose he was a donkey, then,” she said, lifting her head high and looking down her muzzle at the Guard as if he were wearing a tacky, if not especially offensive suit. “Or a griffon, or minotaur, or bull, or goat. They are not ponies, either. Would you deny them their right to hear the crimes they stood accused of?”

Neither Guard responded.

Emboldened, Rarity pressed harder. “Furthermore, Driftwood will not be going to Canterlot. He will be going to Ponyville. After all, I’m involved in this, and once that comes to light, he’ll be sent there in any case. Unless you gentlestallions know of a compelling reason why Princess Twilight Sparkle, who specializes in exactly this sort of circumstance, is incapable of handling it.”

“Rarity, please don’t,” Driftwood pleaded, eyes wide and voice desperate. “You’re making it worse for yourself. You don’t know what they’ll do to you.”

Driftwood’s protest, panicked though it was, died peacefully as Rarity gently pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth before she turned his head so that she could look him in the eye.

“Everything will be fine,” she said with a glowing smile, and without even needing to taste her sincerity, he believed her, the anxiety boiling in his chest cooling to a simmer.

“Ponyville, then,” said the Guard who had been otherwise quiet, rising up out of his aggressive stance. His compatriot immediately rounded on him.

“We have orders,” he stated angrily.

“Orders are to arrest and bring discovered changelings to Canterlot so that they can be questioned by a Princess,” replied the first Guard. “It does not matter which Princess, and Ponyville is closer in any case.” Pointedly ignoring the forming protest, he turned back to Rarity and Driftwood, who were surprised that it had, in fact, been that easy. “We are leaving in ten minutes, whether or not you have luggage prepared.”

Driftwood took a few minutes in his kitchen to empty the icebox — “Snacks for later,” he’d said — and ensure his lamp oil was well sealed while Rarity packed her things away, and did the same for her lover’s meager traveling possessions, all under the watchful eyes of both Guardsponies.

The four of them stepped outside, and once the door was secured and Driftwood had donned his disguise, they began walking down the beach with luggage in tow. Driftwood stopped after a few paces to look at his bungalow with worry. Once again Rarity pressed a gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Everything will be fine,” she repeated, and once again he believed her.

With one final look at his home of many years, both pony and changeling, along with their escort, resumed their walk towards the train station.

Hope

Later than night, Rarity attacked her sketchpad with a level of energy she’d not felt for two weeks, thought after design flowing from the tip of her pencil like desire made manifest. Many were designs that were not practical, and some were perhaps too fanciful even for her otherwise active imagination, but the joy of giving them shape in the world meant that mattered little to her. What did matter to her was Driftwood.

The two Guards that had escorted them from Driftwood’s bungalow were only a part of a full cohort, and it had been a small matter to secure space aboard one of the trains leaving Portside. The schedule had been changed to overnight, and would go to Hoofington, only a day’s ride from Ponyville, but there were only two passenger cars, the rest of the train reserved for parcels and mail. Two passenger cars, all considered, were a bit on the small side for thirty one ponies, a changeling, and all the associated luggage, but they made due. Rarity and Driftwood, at the least, had a bench to themselves even as Guards were otherwise crowded around them.

When the sun was still up, Driftwood — disguised all the while — had been fine, or at least as fine as the situation would allow, and the Guards had been accommodating and not antagonistic, if not particularly friendly. Some rations — a chocolate bar which they’d split — had been spared for both of them as well, complimenting the food Driftwood had packed, which consisted mainly of the oranges Rarity had picked and some raw vegetables. When the sun was up, the situation had been calm, if not ideal.

The trouble had started when Driftwood tried to go to sleep, leaning against the wall of the car with a pillow — secured from Rarity’s own luggage — under his head. He hadn’t stirred much, but she was sure he was just trying to avoid disturbing her. When at last he gave up trying to sleep and simply stared out the window, Rarity put her sketchpad aside. “Driftwood,” she said more than asked.

That he was startled when he turned to look at her told her everything. “We all know the truth already, Driftwood. Please don’t hide from me.” He started to open his mouth to protest, but she was quicker, gently placing a hoof over his lips. After a moment of silence, Driftwood closed his eyes and gave a sighed of resignation before his disguise melted away. Rarity could just imagine how many eyes that might have drawn looking to see what was happening, but gave them no consideration beyond that, drawing her hoof away to let Driftwood speak.

“I’m terrified, Rarity,” he said lowly, apparently not seeking to hide his feelings any more than his physical form. His eyes were cast down, as if that might afford him some sort of barrier. “I’m sure most of the stories about Princess Twilight are just imaginations running wild, but almost all of them say that Canterlot was attacked in the middle of her brother’s wedding. A few even say it was her wedding, and now I can’t stop my imagination. What’s going to happen to me?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Driftwood,” Rarity said, raising her hoof once more to tilt his face upwards, meeting his gaze. “There are laws that govern exactly these sorts of situations. Laws that give you protections.”

“Laws written by ponies.”

That struck Rarity as an odd thing to say. “That’s right,” she said in tentative agreement.

Driftwood sighed ruefully. “I’m not a pony, Rarity. It’ll be different for me. I won’t have protections. Do you know what that means?”

“I know that you haven’t done anything wrong, and that Twilight will understand that,” Rarity replied.

“Will she?” Driftwood asked apprehensively.

Further protest, if indeed there was to be any, was silenced as Rarity placed a gentle kiss on his nose. “Yes,” she said with a warm, soothing smile. “Now, enough of this. You’re at a crossroad, Driftwood. You helped me through mine, and I hope you’ll be there at the next one. Let me help you through yours, just this once.”

Driftwood was silent for a moment, and then he smiled back, if much more somberly, and rested his forehead against hers. “Just this once,” he said before tilting her face upwards and pecking her on her lips.

“Go to sleep, silly boy,” Rarity said, pecking him right back. Driftwood nodded and, with his anxiety quieted once again, he gave toothy yawn poorly covered with a tarsus and then laid his head on his pillow again. Rather than returning to her sketches, Rarity watched him for a few minutes until she was certain that this time, he’d managed to fall asleep. With her muse likewise quiet for a time, she carefully pressed closer to his side and laid her head on his shoulder.

As she herself drifted to sleep, the train carrying both of them into the future, she considered for a moment what she was certain she’d seen in his expression just a moment earlier, something she was sure he’d felt the previous evening when she asked him to swim with her, and perhaps had not felt for a long time before that:

A glimmer of hope.