The sharp click of my hooves against the cobblestone road is accentuated by the steady beat of the other ponies around me. There aren’t many, but they are there, like the trees in a park, and just as forgettable. They aren’t important, background noise to fill a void, a single board of a raft upon which I keep myself afloat. The ring of silver shoes on the street has always had a soothing quality to my ear.
It is still early in the evening, the dim sun near the horizon and casting long shadows over the street. Or it would have if not for the thick clouds smothering the world in a horrid, uniform grey, only the light from the tall streetlamps lining the avenue providing the world any color.
The pedestrians pass me by at a trot, heading this way and that. I wonder at where they are headed, try to imagine what they are thinking. That chubby mare with her mane in a bun to hide the fullness of her cheeks. Where is she headed? Home, to a husband too attached to the past to not see what she has grown into, or did she give up early with only a pet to warm her bed at night?
What of that stallion over there, with the thinning mane and chipped shoes? Is he going out to see his mistress, or did he have the dignity to leave his wife before seeking another’s bed?
I scoff under my breath and return my attention to the ground at my hooves. They should be ashamed of themselves, despicable. Better to hide away from the world, save others from having to bear witness to their decrepit lives.
It is only when the last light of the sun disappears, that I stop to realize how lost I am. The street is wholly unfamiliar to me, the buildings indistinguishable from each other in the oppressive grey.
Canterlot has been my home for almost as long as I can remember, but that is meaningless here. My entire life, I’d never left my comfort zone, never straying beyond the theater district or bazaar or a few other select places. Worse, I never walked to any of them. This street, this part of the city may as well be Trottingham for all I recognize it. Indeed the only landmark I can find is the Castle just visible over the lowest roof tops. But that means little. Without the sun in the sky, I have no inclination of its direction.
I’d call the street a slum, but that’s not right. The poorest sections of Canterlot are on par with the richest in some cities. There is no trash clogging the gutters, nor graffiti marring the sides of the buildings, even the dark alleys are clear of debris and vagrants. More than enough light radiates from the tall streetlamps, keeping away the worst of the creeping shadows of night.
It’s then that I notice the lack of sound, only the clip clop of my own hooves trying futilely to fill the void left by the lack of other ponies.
What an odd feeling it is to be completely alone. To stand still in a street, amid the darkness and the glow of streetlamps. To turn an ear and not hear a single equine sound beyond one’s own breathing and heartbeat. I feel it should be more worrisome, more panic inducing, as though I should be running back to find somepony, anypony to keep me company.
The first drop of rain strikes my ear, and I flinch. On something like instinct, I glance up just in time for another to strike my nose. Before I can do much else, those two drops become hundreds, all striking my back and head.
Like a sign from Princess Luna herself, I see my salvation from the storm.
It’s inconspicuous, the building, I don’t think I would have noticed were any others to turn their lights on. The sign above the stairs, writ like chalk upon a black board, reads Tabula Rasa. The stairs themselves lead down half a flight to a door beneath street level. It is not incredibly uncommon for establishments to be so designed, though it reeks of lower class fare.
With the rain starting to come down in earnest, and nowhere else to go, I make my way down the stairs.
The door opens to my magic and I slip inside just as the drizzle turns into a genuine rain. The stallion at the door greets me, but I can’t summon the energy to really care.
The whole establishment seems darker, even, than it had been outside. Every wall has a black cherry finish over ebon wood with chandeliers carrying wax candles to provide a warmth those modern firefly lamps can not contend with. It is a place of brooding solitude, but that sounds a bit harsh to my ear. It seems to promote an isolated privacy so profound that it could be filled, shoulder to shoulder with ponies, and, should I wish it, I would notice their presence no more than if I were at home, in the solitude of my own bedchamber.
I can’t help but feel that this place was not designed to be enjoyed, but rather to be a blank, to remove the lingering impression left behind by any other… like sorbet.
Better than the rain at least.
The door pony says something more, but I don’t catch it and state simply that I will sit at the bar before continuing as though he did not exist. I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t stand the thought to suffer small talk and the empty pleasantries that such a thing would require of me.
The bar is darker than the walls, obsidian polished to a mirror shine. It makes the white coated bartender seem to glow, and I wonder what it does for my own coat. Behind him there is an array of drinks ranging from high end liquor to higher end wine—this is Canterlot, after all, no matter the lower class area—and a mirror is there as well, all but obscured behind the bottles.
My magic shifts through my mane in a vain attempt to straighten the rat’s nest and force out the little rain that it absorbed.
“What’s your pleasure?” the bartender asks as I sit, his voice an odd mixture of rough and cultured, like he scoured his throat with liquor every morning before taking speech lessons.
I point to a bottle of Caberneigh, a 933. A decent enough vintage to chase away the chill left by the rain, and, if I’m lucky, everything else.
He retrieves the bottle as I watch. The way his muscles shift beneath his coat, the way his golden aura leaks from the spirals of his horn, how he doesn’t even notice me as he pours the first glass and leaves the bottle as he goes to attend another patron.
I finish the first glass, not tasting the wine at all, and pour myself a second.
It is only as I bring the second glass to my lips that I catch sight of the mare seated beside me.
How I missed her, I’ll never know. She is in a slick, almost streamlined dress running tight over a sharp cerulean coat. It gives her the impression of constant movement, of flying even as she remains in her stool. But it is her mane that steals my eye. Six streaks of color, a waterfall of rainbows frozen just before it would crash against the dark wood bar. She stares broodingly at her own glass of wine. On second glance, I notice that her dress is ruffled and wrinkled, with spots of brown and black, there is a tear in her sleeve, wings loose at her sides and feathers ruffled.
As my eyes take her in, traveling up and down her form, I’m certain that I recognize her, though I can not place where. She has to be a model or a designer, potentially both, but her cutie mark is covered, and that wasn’t my first glass of wine. I focus on her foreleg and realize that I must be mistaken. No, she is not a model, perhaps she has appeared in a magazine, but her build is all wrong for modeling. The lack of a hooficure should have been a dead giveaway.
I begin to sip at my second glass as I study her.
She is dressed up and not a little. Her make up is the work of an expert and her mane, I get a distinct impression that it is not normally so tidy, indeed, even as I watch, her hoof moves in to muss the flowing locks, creating a much more rough and tumble look that is somehow more right. Between that, her dress, her presence here seemingly alone, and the way she is staring at the nearly untouched glass of wine before her, I make the only logical conclusion that I can.
She planned on being here tonight no more than I did.
I pour a third glass.
She is gorgeous, though. No, handsome is a better word. Gorgeous is something crafted with love and care, a result of dedicated effort, like an artist’s painting or sculpture. I am gorgeous, yes?
No, hers is a more natural thing, like the waterfalls beneath Canterlot, all rough, sharp edges, weakness worn away by the constant assault of elements until all that remains is the more durable bedrock beneath. I’d seen such before, but almost universally in the older guards serving their last few years before retirement. It would be disconcerting to see such on a mare so many years my junior, it would if I did not find it inexplicably captivating.
I have to force myself to look away. My eyes return to the mirror, and the unpainted mare staring back at me. I scowl at her before dropping my gaze and lifting my glass.
What draws me to speak, I haven’t a clue. Any other day I’m sure I would have not said a word. I would have finished my bottle, perhaps had a second, however long it took before the rain subsided, then left. It is possible I feel sorry for her, or my curiosity is getting the better of me, or I’m simply too tipsy to care, or, and this almost frightens me, I see…
I notice the bottle that sits next to her glass and read the label. Without a thought in my head I take it in my magic—along with her glass—and pour the contents down the sink behind the bar.
“What the hay!” she shouts, her voice as craggy as the falls she reminds me of. Her head raises, turns toward me, and I see a guttering fire in her eyes. “I was drinking that!”
I refill her glass with the last dregs of my own wine and hold it up for her to take. “Then you should be thanking me from saving you from that swill. If you do not find this far superior vintage more to your liking I will buy you two bottles to replace that one.”
“Look, lady, I did not come here to sample wines, I came here to get trashed.”
“Yes, I gathered as much.”
She continues to glare at me, and I match her with a confident smirk.
“Whatever,” she almost snorts as she snatches the flute with a hoof and tosses it back in a single, gratuitous gulp that makes me cringe. Her eyes turn up as her tongue swirls behind her lips as though searching her teeth for every drop of flavor. She shrugs. “It’s alright, but I don’t see what’s so much better about it.”
“Better?” I sputter. “What’s better is fifty years of age and a far superior grape! You may as well compare filtered water to drinking from a muddy stream!”
She weathers my lambasting with the dispassion of a seasoned professional. “What’s wrong with drinking from a stream?” she asks all too cheekily.
I reevaluate her. My comparison to the waterfalls was premature. More accurate would be a painted up rock face. Yes, that fits much better. She is like a nondescript boulder covered in paint to hide the blemishes. Whatever I thought I saw in her was part of the disguise. She is nothing but a crude, classless rube who has no place in Canterlot.
I ignore her and tap on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. He returns promptly as I say, “Please provide this mare with two bottles of whatever it was she was drinking and put the last one on my tab as well. Then bring me a bottle of the 954 Pal’mino Noir.”
The stallion nods dully as he follows my instructions, paying neither of us any attention beyond that.
“Oh, so now you’re going to give me the cold shoulder? Fine, whatever.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, though I’m not sure why. To my surprise, she answers.
“I already told you, trying to get wasted,” she says as she snatches the bottle away from the bartender and pours her own, “or I would be if some ponies would just leave me alone.”
“No. Why are you here, in Canterlot. You obviously don’t belong. And nopony gets that dressed up just to get ‘wasted.’”
“Why do you care?” she asks before throwing her head back and swallowing the entire glass, again.
“I don’t!” I hiss back and match her drink with my own, the wonderful flavors of the fifty year old wine failing to touch my tongue.
“Then why are you asking?”
“I don’t know!”
The echo filters into my ears as I realize that, yes, I did in fact scream loud enough for everypony to hear. I refuse to feel embarrassment, instead leveling a malevolent glare at any pony I catch staring at me. Once the general murmur of the restaurant resumes, I return to my own drink, pouring another glass.
She says something, but I don’t hear it.
I don’t care. I have no reason to. If she wants to be such a nag, that’s just fine with me. I have my own problems, and the last thing I need is to add hers on top of them.
I glance her way again, and she is giving me an expectant look.
"What?" I ask, my voice dull and lifeless.
"Are you okay?"
Yes, is what I want to say. I’m fine, just a little tipsy is all. I don’t need some rainbow maned hussy from nowhere with a ruffled mane and dirty dress trying to comfort or calm me down. Who do you think you are anyway?
I don’t, instead my hoof taps the bar again and I ask for my check. The rain be damned, I don’t want to be here anymore.
He rattles the amount and I reach for my bit purse, noting with some amusement the other mare’s wide eyed expression at the price; it’s probably more than she could ever hope to afford. It’s not there: my purse. My eyes close and my whole body slumps. Of course it isn’t; it’s on my dresser, beside my jewelry box. I didn’t take it because I didn’t get dressed because I wasn’t going anywhere, because I couldn’t stay in that house for another second.
I ask if they take credit, more out of reflex than hope. They don’t, of course. I tell him who I am and who my husband is. He shrugs, an annoyed look darkening his features. I ask if they have a phone—we’d just had one installed last month—so that I may have the bits brought. I can’t even muster a sigh when he shakes his head, a frown pulling on his lips.
I smile. It starts so small but quickly begins to stretch my whole muzzle. The situation is so absurd. Here I am, one of the richest ponies in Canterlot, unable to pay a bar-tab. Then the chuckles start, a single grunt that gives birth to a set of twins and avalanches until I’m shaking on my stool. Everypony is staring at me, but I don’t care; I’m used to being the center of attention.
I stop.
Before anypony can register what is happening, I take off, kicking off the bar and galloping for the exit. Why? It doesn’t matter. Best case, they call the guard and escort me home to retrieve the money, worst case doesn’t even bear considering.
The pony at the door notices a second too late and only half-imposes himself in my way. I check him with a wither and don’t even slow down. The door swings outward as I gallop into the pouring rain. I don’t stop to notice it. The moment I hit street level I turn, skidding on the cobblestone, nearly losing my hoofing, and dash off to the left.
I don’t know how long I ran, but I turned down three more streets before slowing to a stop. My lungs burned even as the icy cold of the rain penetrated my coat. More water seeps in as my haunches hit the soaked, dirty ground. Panting, my heart is going to explode any second, either that or break out—
“You’re pretty fast… for a prissy unicorn that is.”
“Wh—” I try to speak, but my voice fails for lack of air.
“And the way you tackled that stallion, I wouldn’t mind having you on my hoofball team.”
“I don’t— You—”
Is the extent of my articulation before I fall to my side, my barrel expanding and collapsing as I struggle to fill it with as much air as I can. And then I’m up, my neck draped over hers with a wing draped across my back.
“It’s not good to stop like that, you’ll give yourself cramps. Come on, we’ll walk it out until we can find someplace out of the rain.”
I want to protest, to berate her for violating my personal space so brazenly, but I can’t make myself do it. Already the chill is being chased away by her presence. Her wing, as waterproof as any pegasus’, protects me from the elements. I can not help but to lean against her as she leads me down the street.
She walks me a good distance down the road. By the time I started paying attention to anything outside the surprising warmth under her wing and the burning in my chest and lungs, we were in a park and walking under a small pavillion to escape the rain.
Part Two by Nom_deCheval
It’s good to be dry again. Running in the rain is something of a new experience for me—particularly in the manner I just performed—but it was a bit of an adventure. Too much adventure can ruin a night, though I have discovered a little does add some adrenaline to the blood.
And so I find myself in this pavillion with a mare who has—quite literally—taken me under her wing. The odd thing is, I still find myself pressed up against her. This ill kept, painted boulder. I’m taking advantage of her, and I will do no such thing. It is improper at best, and at worst an insult to the both of us. Even if I still find it difficult to pull myself away from her warmth.
“My apologies.” I also find it difficult to look her in the eyes at this moment. “Thank you for bringing me…” I finally get a chance to look around. The rain is falling like the iconic waterfalls outside Canterlot, covering everything and blanketing the view, but still this is no place that I have been before. I am in unfamiliar territory. “Well, I don’t know where we are.”
“Ah, don’t worry. You were having a bit of a rough time, so I swooped in for the save. It’s kinda what I do.” Words like that are enough to get me to look at her. She is as full of bravado in her eyes as she is in her voice.
Looking deeper, I can see something gleam behind the red irises, and somehow it changes her. Takes the painted boulder and turns her to a sculpted piece of marble, painted over to disguise its true beauty.
With a grace that is far too practiced, I step to one side, settle into a sitting position and wrap my tail around my flank. Once to act demure, now to hide unwanted flaws. It is that very same practice that allows me to suppress the chuckle that wants to rumble up from my lungs.
“Well, nonetheless, I feel I owe you a debt.” A soft smile, not too much, just a hint over the lip. A larger smile shows lines I prefer to keep hidden. “Though I cannot be indebted to someone that I don’t actually know. My name is Fleur de Lis. What is yours, if I may ask?”
“Uh, well, you did just ask. But sure! I’m Rainbow Dash!” She flaps into the air for a moment, spreading her wings out in a rather blatant display. It’s adorable in its own way. “Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
“Sorry, no, but I don’t think that we travel in the same circles.”
The expression on her face is priceless. It’s like I just took away one of her favorite toys as a child. Ah, the exuberance of youth.
“Save the world a few times, but does anyone recognize me? Heck no.” I can barely hear her mumbling to herself. With no pomp or circumstance she deposits herself rather unceremoniously beside me.
“Saved the world?” That does sound familiar. The stories of Equestria’s newest princess and her friends are well known, and a point of pride among some—myself included. “Does that mean you are one of Princess Twilight Sparkle and Rarity’s companions? One of Rarity’s Ponyville friends?”
For a moment it looks as though I actually slapped her. Her entire face shudders before settling back to itself. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You know Twilight and you know RARITY, but you don’t know me?”
“Well, the way you say it, it sounds bad. I know of your exploits via association, isn’t that good enough?” I can tell that I’ve said the wrong thing. By no means did I wish to hurt her feelings.
She looks at me with intensity in her eyes. “I saved the Wonderbolts, you know! Got a Silver Medal at the Equestria Games! I’m staying with Princess Celestia! By invitation!”
That is a rather impressive resume. Now I find myself genuinely surprised that I don’t know her by name. In fact, it makes many things questionable.
“Rainbow Dash, if you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing down at that rather… colorful bar?”
The look she gives me has a tinge of humor to it, but more of a deflection. “You mean besides getting drunk?”
“Yes, besides that. I believe that part was covered thoroughly in the bar itself.”
“Just, you know, hanging.” She turns away from me, looking out into the downpour.
“By yourself? Seemingly wanting no company? I find that hard to believe.” My eyelids close slightly and my lips soften. “You can tell me the truth. I will not judge you.”
I see her look from the rain to the ceiling of our impromptu asylum. They roll slightly around, finally coming back to rest on me. “Fine. I had another bad date with a stupid stallion who couldn’t handle my awesomeness. And I wasn’t ready to go back to my room. Happy?”
Let the paint flake away at your own pace. “You have my deepest condolences. I can only conjecture the pony in question was of far less than equitable mien.”
“Uh...maybe? If that means he was a jerk, then yeah. He was a huge jerk.” A slight ruffle of her feathers indicates more of a story.
“What did he do to you? Nothing improper I hope.”
“Huh? Oh, heck no! I’da kicked him hard enough to make sure his kids felt it! Nah, this was just a stallion with a stupid name who wasn’t able to handle all of this!” The gesture she makes towards herself is a wonderful addition to her statement. There is no lack of confidence in her, that is certain. I remember when I possessed it in equal measure—in a much better time.
Wait… funny name? That sounds… “Excuse me, but by chance you were not courted by Copious Assets were you?”
“Courted? Phht. Not hardly. He even made fun of my dress.” She looked down at her own tattered garment with some anger. “Rarity knocked herself out making this! ...and she’s gonna kill me when she sees what happened to it.”
“Well, I can assure you that Copious Assets is a spoiled whelp. You are far better off without him.” I share a look at her clothing. “And, by the way, what did happen to your dress?”
“That was just a...thing. Well, sorta my thing. I mean…” She took a deep breath and I saw her expression lighten. “Okay, it’s like this. My friend Rarity set me up on this date, right? For some reason she thinks that I need to get out more and find a stallion outside of Ponyville, and since she’s such a good friend, I figure why not? I’ll indulge her a little.”
I see her hoof travel behind her head, scratching her mane on the surface, but on a deeper level she’s searching for something else. “So she gets me to put on this dress, which is way, way too tight for someone like me. I mean, seriously, watch this.”
She twists her body to a position that most ponies would find impossible, let alone uncomfortable, and the seams on the garment split wide, revealing the trim muscle of her body beneath. I do try not to stare. There was a time that others would stare at me that way, after all.
“See? I mean, it’s no surprise that it ripped when I…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, and instead looks down at the floor of the pavillion.
“What? When you did what?”
I watch her chest expand as she takes a deep breath—perhaps watching a little too much, actually. “Okay, so I was out with Doofus Dumbname and he took me to this nice restaurant, uh, The Closet Club or something—”
“The Clover Club. Yes, I know the place.” I hate interrupting her, but that is one of the five best eateries in all of Equestria, let alone Canterlot.
“Did you know that place doesn’t even serve hayburgers? I mean, what’s up with that?” The shocked expression on her face is priceless. “Oh, but yeah, the dinner. So, we were sitting at this fancy table and there were, like, seven or eight forks in front of me, and he was sitting across from me and I was trying to figure out why somepony would need more than one fork, and he orders some food for both of us. Stuff that I can’t even pronounce.
“When it shows up at the table there is a plate that has four or five tiny vegetables on it, and this tiny bowl of water that they told me was soup. I think there were more forks than food, to be honest.” She shakes her head, and her mane falls down, the water from the rain letting it hang naturally once more. It fits her much better. I’m suddenly painfully aware of how mine must look right now. “Then I look over at him, thinking I might get a clue, and...and he’s staring at the mare at the next table.”
My heart sinks a little. My mind flashes back. This mare isn’t the sort that is prepared for that sort of thing. Then again, what mare is?
“So, I kinda cleared my throat. Reminded him I was at the table. You know what he does? He looks at me and apologizes, telling me that he was distracted by her delicate beauty or something like that.” It’s odd. She almost has a smile on her face while she’s telling me this. Not expected. “Hey, I might not be like you or Rarity, but I sure ain’t somepony you just ignore. Especially when we’re on a date—even a crummy one!”
“I totally agree.” Did she just call me a delicate beauty?
“There….” She hesitates. I don’t press her. “There were some things said, and some things done. It doesn’t matter. I tore my dress and the date ended badly. So, I got outta there and just started wandering the streets. I saw it was about to rain and spotted the bar, and...well, here we are.”
There is something she’s not telling me. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I’m grateful that she’s sharing anything with me at the moment. What is it about this brash, cerulean pegasus that is so comforting? Certainly not her manners nor refinement. Perhaps it is the distinctive lack of those traits that appeals to me. Perhaps it is her being blissfully unaware of how fleeting her beauty will be from the ravages of time. Or maybe just the fact that she seems… genuine.
“He is an idiot, and one that you shouldn’t give any second thought. The mere fact that he does not recognize your unique beauty is his loss.”
“Exactly!” She bursts up into the air once more, flexing her wings out. I get the distinct impression that, were she not having to interact with others, she would not be spending any time on the ground at all. “Not all mares are made of fluff and stuff. No offense.”
“None taken.” I would never call myself fluff, however. It isn’t wise to judge a mare by her coat, as they say. My coat may seem white, but it is hardly pristine any longer.
“Your turn.” Her words catch me off guard, and I am certain that it is reflected in my appearance. For the briefest of moments I find myself apoplectic.
“My… I… what are you talking about?”
“Just that it’s your turn. I told you why I was at the bar, now you gotta tell me why you were there.”
Plopping herself down once more, she grins at me. It’s not a smile, it is a grin. A mischievous, playful grin. I suddenly have the feeling that I was being played. Set up by somepony who likes to dally in games. Well done. Once upon a time, I would put her in her place, but that was long ago, and far from this day.
Like her, I take a deep breath before I begin. “I don’t suppose you know who I am, do you?” She shakes her head, confirming what I already knew. “Well, I am married to one of the most wealthy and influential stallions in Canterlot. He is a fine, revered member of Canterlot elite. We met many years ago at a social function. I was working as a model at the time and was lucky enough to catch his eye. We spoke, things progressed, we dated, and less than a year later I wed him in a very extravagant and acclaimed ceremony. It was covered in all of the social columns and publications. We were the talk of Canterlot.”
“But...that was a long time ago, right? I meant why were you there today?” A long time ago? Of course it seems a long time ago to her. She’s young and beautiful. Seeing somepony so far past their prime must seem like I come from a distant era.
“Yes. It seems that it was indeed a very long time ago.” My mind wanders back to the events of the day. To that moment which sent me scurrying from home and onto the streets. It burns me now as much as it did then, and I decide not to hold it in. “Time makes an old mare of all of us, Rainbow Dash. I am older than you, but I do not believe there are many who would call me...mature. I work hard to look like I do. Yes, I was gifted with good genetics, but it is with effort that I maintain my appearance. I’m sure you understand. You surely have to work to maintain your looks as well, yes?”
“Uh...sure.” She nods, lying. I doubt she cares what she eats and simply lounges about all day.
“Then let me share with you a secret that I discovered far too harshly today. No matter how hard you work, no matter how hard you try to hold on to your beauty, it ultimately doesn’t matter.”
My beauty. How long can any mare hold onto that which invariably fades with the passage of time. Yes, I can–I have–used some of my wealth to visit doctors, both in Equestria and far beyond, but that was only so that I might maintain a career. Continue to contribute what I can to the social pages and inspire the… young.
I notice that my voice has fallen to little more than a whisper, even as I growl out the next words. “If all you have to offer is your looks, then you will surely discover that there is always a mare younger than you. Somepony trim and fit, with a dusty coat and dark mane that….”
Now I hold it in. I will not go that far. There is no way that I will give him that victory. He might see me—or once have seen me—as nothing more than a body to enjoy and display, but I know that I am more. I am more. I am. Better stallions than him have tried to do far worse to me over my years, and he will not be the one to beat me. I will not cry.
“Uh, are you okay?” Her voice breaks into me and I turn to her. The red in her eyes dims in the gray light of the rain, becoming warm and welcoming.
“Of course I am.” I straighten myself, settling back onto my haunches slightly, smiling back the dampness in my eyes. I don’t speak so much as expel the words. “I was at home. I encountered my husband in a… compromising… manner and left. Like you, the rain caught me and I entered the building. Discovering it was a bar, I had a few drinks and…. Well, as you phrased it, here we are.”
The colors in her face blanche, then immediately flush bright red. She is not blushing, however. “Where is he?”
I have to nip this, quickly. For her protection as much as anything. “Who? My husband?” I gently try to calm her. “No, no. That’s...not your concern.”
“Of course it’s my concern! You’re my friend! And nopony gets away with treating my friends like that.” Friend? We just met. How can you…? You mean that, though, don’t you?
For a moment I consider granting her request. Directing her to my home and letting her go in, brash and headstrong, giving him everything that he deserves and more—even it is just a strong reprimand and tongue lashing. How I would love to see this fireball in action. Then I remember myself, and more importantly, the rest of my life.
“It’s not a matter of how he treated me, it’s more… It’s complicated. I’m not…” How can I explain this? Define a life that has always relied on a veil of appearances? “I’m just not the mare I used to be.”
“Not the mare you used to be?” Her tone. Her actions. She doesn’t understand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The breath comes out of a me a bit heavier than I intend as I settle in to explaining aloud what I’ve said in my head too many times. “It means that I’m old. That he’s always had an eye for youth, and that I… This is Canterlot.”
“I… that doesn’t…” She presses a hoof against her temple. “Gah!” The frustration is apparent before she says a word. “You’re not old. You’re gorgeous! Any mare would kill to look like you.” It suddenly occurs to me that my feelings might not be the issues frustrating her. “To be graceful…”
“Yes… gorgeous. I thought that exact same thing earlier.” Worked. Crafted. Created. A fabrication put on display. “And you have no reason—no pony has any reason to want to be like me. You… you move far more dynamically than I could ever hope.”
“Tell that to all the stallions back in Ponyville.” I’m surprised at how fragile she can be. This bold blast of color and energy is still just a pony. She feels. She hurts. So desperately in need. And she is right in front of me.
“I shouldn’t have to, but if somepony needs to, they should.” I bring my hoof under her chin, redirecting it to my face. “You are very special, Rainbow Dash. Any pony that does not see that… Well, they don’t deserve to see it, then.”
“Heck yeah, I’m special. I’m awesome.” I hear and feel her kick the floor, but I don’t look down. I want to keep her face in my eyes. “For all the good it does. No stallion wants a mare like me. They want mares like you and Rarity. Beautiful and elegant and charming…”
I chuckle at her words. Age does give a little perspective on some things. “Stallions have no idea what they want most of the time. We think we can tell them, but, in truth, they never make up their minds. They are always fickle beasts. A wise stallion would gladly look at you and be thrilled.” She is stunning. “And so would many mares, for that matter. You underestimate yourself. Sometimes, we all do.”
“That… uh… that doesn’t change that your husband deserves a good flank kicking,” I should back away. Give her room. I may have pressed too hard. And yet, I don’t. I move closer.
“To what end? He will have his way, ultimately. Money has a way of bringing power. He will never understand what it is to have to endure doubt. He can buy his pleasure. Though he will never have the pleasure of being in the position I am at this moment.” I close the gap between us slowly. Gracefully bringing my lips towards hers. “His loss.”
What happens next is not something that needs to be detailed. Suffice it to say that two mares found each other at the right juncture on that day, and for a short while that was all that mattered.
The rain falls down in a blanket to cover us in that pavillion, hiding us from everypony with a view, and preventing any more random passers by. The roar of the water drowning out all sounds that tried to compete with it. We see none of it. We hear none of it. Lost only in the sights and sounds we share among ourselves.
The rain subsides just as Celestia brings the sun to the horizon, revealing the two of us sitting together, her wing over me yet again as I lay against her side.
“You gonna be okay?” Rainbow asks me. Ah, the depths of that question.
“Right now? Yes. Later? Time will tell.” I give her the only answer I can.
“What are you gonna do?”
“What any good Canterlot wife would do,” I explain, “nothing. I will go on with my life, playing the role that I have set for myself as the female figure of our household, smiling and hoping that the smile is genuine each time. He will figure out that I know, and he will do nothing. We will live our lives together—apart.”
“Wow. That’s really messed up.” She pulls her wing off of me slowly. “You don’t have to do that, you know. You can do anything you want.”
“Thank you. Not only for those words, but for giving me something that will help me to maintain a genuine smile.” I inhale, tasting the odor that follows a storm. Sweet and refreshing. “And I can have my dalliances, too, can’t I?”
“I guess.” I watch her pace forward, looking out from under the roof at the sky above. “Yeah, the weather ponies are clearing everything out. We should be good to go.”
“And where will you go?”
“Rarity is probably chomping at the bit to find out where I’ve been. Guess I’ll have to go give her the bad news,” she sighs.
“About your date?”
She turns back to me, her face twisted into a curious look. “What? Heck no! Glad that’s over, and it led to a great evening anyway.” She smiles at me and I return it. “I just don’t want to tell her about the dress.”
I look to the folded cloth I placed to the side a short while ago and a warmth spreads through my body once again. I speak to Rainbow without looking away from the dress. “I want to buy it from her. From you.”
“You what?” Rainbow’s question brings me back around to her, and I carefully levitate the cloth beside me and trot over to stand with her. I feel the tension in her instantly. “You want to pay me for—”
“No!” I place a hoof over her lips. “No. Nothing of the sort. I could never think that way of you. And I hope you would never think that of me.”
She relaxes, much to my happiness, though some color plays across her cheeks as well.
“I want to purchase this dress. It caught my eye in a most delightful manner, and I refuse to let it go. Please inform Miss Rarity that I request her presence at my home so that she may alter the dress to fit me accordingly.”
“If I go back without the dress, then Rarity—”
“Tell her whatever you like. A charity auction at the restaurant. That I was an annoying piece of wealth who pestered you until you relented. The important thing is that this dress… that the mare who wore this dress is important to me, and I wish to have it with me during any further difficult times.”
I hear her hooves scuffle against the floor. “Uh, you could just kinda have that mare, maybe.”
As I release my breath I curl up my lips, genuinely delighted by her naïveté. So charming. “No. We both know that can’t happen. What would I do in your world? How long could you endure mine? This was… lightning. We caught it this once, but I do not want to tempt it burning me with a second try.”
Her ears and shoulders droop. Disappointment? Realization? They are so close to each other. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“And you, dear,” I lean over and give her a light peck on the cheek, “are wonderful.”
She rises up like a phoenix, hovering a few feet off the ground. “Wonderful? I’m awesome!”
“Yes, I suppose you’re that, too,” I chuckle.
For a long moment we stare at each other. No expression. No words. Just sharing that last passage of time together.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” she finally says.
I nod. “Always.”
With a dazzling burst of speed she darts into the sky. Two quick loops and she turns towards the castle, flying out of view in seconds.
Looking to the dress, I move it to my back, holding it lightly in place with my magic. The first step off of the pavillion lands my hoof in a puddle, and it means nothing to me. Something shallow that I have to deal with on a regular basis now.
“Good morning.” I turn to see a Royal Guard walking past, nodding politely my direction. “Looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day, huh?”
“Gorgeous?” I smile, and turn my head down. A reflection stares back up at me, shimmering from the street slick with lingering rainwater. “Gorgeous is something crafted with love and care, a result of dedicated effort, like an artist’s painting or sculpture. This...this is beautiful.” My smile traces back up to him. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
He returns the smile. “Completely, ma’am. A perfect description.”
With another nod he passes by, and I watch him for a moment—but only a moment. I have places to be.
I follow the street down and with a turn finally recognize my surroundings. The long shadows of the earliest morning dancing across the golden light reflected in the slick roadways. I follow those rays, letting them guide my eyes up to see the towers of Canterlot above me.
With my head high, I break into a slow trot and head for home.
