In short: how to make the Belle of the Ball feel like another Jane Doe.
I am a function of my dress, Fleur thought as the corset was cinched around her chest. The dress is a function of the scene, she reasoned as velvet and toile were draped around her shoulders. I accentuate that which accentuates the motifs of the set piece, she told herself as the stylists at her hind legs carefully reshaped the creases in her dress. I accentuate, but am no more than an object. As it has been, as it should be.
Fleur did not blink as an ebony mask was fitted around the right side of her face. She did not budge as a scarlet lens around her eye was linked with a thin, silver chain.
But when the stylists placed a crown of iron thorns on top of her head, the corners of Fleur’s mouth twitched in a slight frown.
I must look ridiculous.
Of course, it wasn’t her job to feel ridiculous. She should have been ashamed of herself, having the nerve to feel indignant at doing her job. This was her role, her calling, the destiny her cutie mark had set out for her. She was born to model clothes like these, to wear them as nopony else could; to entertain the press, the magazines, the audience, and most importantly-
“Ah. There you are!”
“-Svengallop,” Fleur replied as a familiar face trotted in front of her. The stylists at her sides pulled back as Svengallop leered at her, his carnation-colored mane bobbing to and fro as his gaze flicked over every inch of her dress.
Nodding, Svengallop turned to look at Fleur. “How are you?”
“I am attempting to bring out the best characteristics of the dress, to the fullest extent in which I am capable.”
“And you, personally, are…?”
“Subservient in my personal preferences to the demands of my profession.”
Svengallop’s thin lips twisted in an arrogant smile. “Splendid. It’s refreshing to run into somepony who actually knows how to do their job. You’d make a far better pop starlet than the trollop I’ve got prancing about the set today.”
“I’m flattered, Svengallop.”
“I could make you a star. Would you care to work for me?”
Fleur gulped, and tried to keep her expression neutral. “I apologize, Svengallop, but I am committed to my work.”
“That’s your loss.” Svengallop scowled at Fleur. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I wouldn’t want to have somepony petulant working for me, anyway.”
Fleur bit her tongue, and said nothing.
“Regardless. You appear to be dressed…adequately. I would have preferred adjustments to the headpiece, but it will have to do.”
“I apologize, Svengallop. They ran out of time to finish with the adjustments.”
“Still. I’ll have to have a meeting with them after production is done for the day. Clearly, some discipline is in order.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think that’s necessary-“
Svengallop shot Fleur a glance of pure hatred and cleared his throat. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Fleur lapsed back into silence.
“With all due respect, I believe both of us know that the phrase “with all due respect” carries no respect at all. I demand an apology, miss…”
“Fleur Dis Lee, Svengallop. I’m sorry for offending you.” Fleur dipped her head, struggling to keep her composure.
“Apology accepted. See you do not show a lack of respect again. And I am not some common “sir”. You will remember this and address me as Svengallop. Am I understood?”
“Absolutely, Svengallop” Fleur replied, lifting her head.
“I am managing you for the day, but do NOT think of me as your manager. You are a service, and once the scene is finished you will return your costume, collect your payment and leave.”
“Of course, Svengallop.”
“Hmm. You’re catching on.” Svengallop smirked. “Perhaps you WOULD have made a suitable diva. Well – should this, ah, “Dulcet Duchess” fail to live up to the standards of my production staff, I’ll try to remember you.”
“I’m honored, Svengallop.”
“As you should be. Now – do you remember the scene?”
“I am the dark queen. I am dying, and the Dulcet Duchess is to become my successor. She will be brought to me on my throne, I will give her my powers with a kiss, and then I will die.”
“Perfect. And you will speak…”
< Like a queen: regal, formal and dignified. And entirely- >
“Yes, you practiced the foreign language segment. Congratulations. I’m satisfied to see that you actually managed to affect a foreign accent.”
“Actually, Svengallop, I’m bilingual. My mother used to-“
“Lovely. Listen: a few minor contributions from artistic assistants aside, I’ve worked painstakingly on every aspect of this music video. It’s going to blow everypony’s mind. It’s going to make that whiny has-been Coloratura look like clod. It’s going to revolutionize music and fashion in one fell swoop. It’s going to make me successful beyond anything you could ever imagine, and if you do as you’re told and make me something worthy of value, I’ll see that you taste a little of the success and beauty for yourself. So for my sake, your sake and the sake of everypony in Equestria, don’t make a scene, and don’t even THINK about veering from your directions. Stage Assistant!” Svengallop shrieked, turning away from Fleur and trotting off towards the stage. “Where are the backup dancers? Where is Dulcet Duchess? I want them on the set in fifteen seconds, or I’m going to re-evaluate everypony’s contracts!”
As Svengallop walked away, Fleur sighed in relief – and was surrounded by makeup artists before she could breathe in. Gritting her teeth in frustration, Fleur closed her eyes and inhaled as slowly as could.
I am a function of my dress, Fleur thought as brushes dabbed at her cheeks and eyelashes. The dress is a function of the scene, she reasoned with herself as eyeliner stencils and lipstick tubes prodded indelicately onto her face. I accentuate that which accentuates the motifs of the set piece, she told herself as she felt a set of tweezers pluck single strands of her mane away from her forehead, and tuck the strands behind her ears. I accentuate, but…
But…
It was a speech she had given herself dozens of times. It meant, as an older model had once told her, virtually nothing. “You tell it to yourself, and pretend it means you’re worth nothing. Then you tell it to yourself as long as it takes you to shut up, finish your job and go home. Then you have a good laugh”, the model had said, “and realize it’s a stupid statement, and validate your cutie mark by realizing that nopony else can do your job.”
Nopony else can do my job, Fleur told herself. Nopony else can stomach the makeup and the preparation and the dieting and the grooming and the life management and…nopony else can stomach ponies like HIM. It’s all me.
Because…
“Fleur!” Svengallop’s nasally voice rang out over the throng. “On the set! Now!”
Fleur opened her eyes in time to see her assistants part before her. The weight of her outfit caused her first step to falter, but her second step was steady and unswerving. Calmly, Fleur walked towards the stage, attempting to drown out the nagging voice in her head.
I demonstrate what the outfit does. I am not just a mannequin. I have voice, personality, my own character. Jokes aside, I project, and I…
I…
Parting a set of curtains, Fleur stepped onto the stage.
“Stage”, Fleur realized, was a gross understatement. Between the vaulted arches, gargantuan stone statues and intricate stained glass panels, she might as well have been in a cathedral. Fleur suspected that she should have been overwhelmed at the sight of it. Perhaps enraptured. At the very least, impressed.
But she was none of those.
Instead, she was aware that she was just as ludicrous and ostentatious as everything else on stage.
Fleur looked around the stage as she walked. There were stallions in skintight chaps and rhinestone-studded vests, and they seemed no more out of place then her. There were unmade beds covered in collars and leashes and whips, and they seemed no more out of place then her. Somewhere from offstage came the sound of a violin playing a dirge in B minor, and it seemed no more out of place then her.
Each completely incongruous out of context; each freakishly entwined on the stage.
She was entwined.
And that was when Fleur realized that she had been right all along.
I’m really nothing more than an object, here.
This sort of shoot, this sort of music video – in terms of preparation and composition, it hadn’t been different at all from how she normally modeled, not on a level that mattered. Her outfit was an extension of the scene, but she was supposed to show it off as much as she would any other dress: nothing more, nothing less.
There was a throne on the stage. In a manner of speaking, anyway: it had a seat, and it had backing, and a set of sloping steps that lead up to where it sat, so it was technically a throne more than anything else. But Fleur had never seen a throne made of wrought iron spikes and dark crystal, twisted and stretched in a vaguely plaintive shape towards the sky.
Biting her lip and swallowing words of derision and self-doubt, Fleur climbed the steps and gently settled into the throne. In front of her, costumed stallions stretched and passed whispered conversations between each other, a stage assistant draped a white cloth on top of a shale-colored coffin, and Svengallop shouted directions at a tan pony wearing a headset.
“Remember – the bass track kicks on exactly in time with the 4/4 measure, but you’re going to do it after the kiss. If you do it before, we’re going to have to re-shoot the whole scene, and I’m going to have to adjust my planner to make up for the lost productivity, and you do NOT want that to happen.”
“Yes, Svengallop.”
The techie knows what he’s doing, jerk. Fleur fumed as she glared down at Svengallop. That’s his job.
And this is my job, isn’t it? To sit here, looking pretty. This is what my cutie mark says I can do. It’s what I’m going to do for the rest of my life. It’s what I was supposed to do, and nothing else.
I’ve been telling myself this all along. I know it’s true.
Why do I feel trapped? Why do I feel like I don’t want this any more?
“Places, everypony!” Svengallop blared. The video set exploded with activity as ponies skittered off the stage, or took painstakingly articulated stances by the coffin and around the beds. It took under ten seconds before everypony had frozen in poses, still as statues.
Save for the droning of the violin, it was completely quiet.
With a satisfied smile, Svengallop trotted off of the stage. Three seconds passed, four, five, six, and nopony moved an inch.
Then something to Fleur’s right crept into her field of view.
Save for a passing glance at an entertainment magazine two weeks ago, Fleur had never seen the Dulcet Duchess. Outfit aside, the duchess hadn’t looked exceptional, much less like model material. Her elegantly coiffed indigo mane was darling, of course, and it accentuated the powder blue of her coat perfectly – but her smile was a little too large, and her eyes were faintly crossed, and the bridge of her nose was a touch too high.
Fleur doubted that anypony was looking at her nose, though. The thick, charcoal-colored outline of an ankh around her right eye was much more noticeable. With mane bobbed and sapphire studs in a vertical line down her chin, the Dulcet Duchess turned and tottered towards Fleur’s throne. Above the drone of the violin, Fleur could hear the clinking of pearls from the duchess’s tattered wedding dress.
Is the new-wave mythology look back in vogue?, Fleur wondered. Or is this just Svengallop’s idea of visionary fashion? It was difficult to tell. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. All she needed to do was finish her scene, collect her check, leave and promise herself to stick strictly to conventional shoots from now on.
The Dulcet Duchess was a meter away, if that. The violin in the background swelled as she stepped closer, until Fleur could feel the heat of the duchess’ shaky breaths on her face. Fleur leaned forward, looking up at the duchess-
-and there was something unexpected in the way the duchess looked back, there was something about her eyes that didn’t quite match the dress or the scene or anything else in the entire room. Not fear, not entirely, more like…
Apprehension.
She doesn’t want this, Fleur realized. No – she isn’t sure of whether or not she wants it. She doesn’t know if this is what she’s supposed to be doing for the rest of her life. She doesn’t know what else she would want to do, but she isn’t sure if this is it.
I could tell her. I could tell her to get out, to run for her life. I could tell her that she doesn’t have to be this, doesn’t have to be some…object, that sits in front of a stage or a microphone, doing what she’s told by a bespectacled fop and subconsciously waiting for some sense of self-awareness to kick in.
The Dulcet Duchess leaned in, eyes wide, mouth agape, waiting.
This is my only chance, Fleur realized. It’s got to be me.
Fleur opened her mouth.
< I can’t stay with you anymore. > The sentence tumbled out of her month, her sentence, the dark queen’s sentence, delivered exactly as mandated by the script.
Fleur watched something indescribable in the Dulcet Duchess’s eyes flicker, then die.
< I’m sorry. >
And as Fleur leaned in and kissed the duchess, the bassline roared to life and swallowed both of them whole.
