♪ Everywhere you go
♪ Friendship there will grow
♪ When you find it, it's the key
♪ Friends can change the world you see
The little quartet—sometimes quintet, one of them tells me—sings very well. They're performing with nothing more than a piano accompaniment, but I'm sure they would sound just as wonderful a capella.
♪ Everywhere you go
♪ Friendship there will grow
♪ When you find it, it's the key
They said it was a new song when they began, but their technical brilliance sounds like it's coming from months of rehearsal. And the soul! There's such raw and distilled feeling in the song, it bleeds out and makes me feel like friendship is the flawless, shining thing they sing it is. That's a feeling I hadn't felt for a long time.
♪ Friends can change the world
♪ Ah-ah~
Soprano, tenor, bass, descant, it's all there. They sing so effortlessly and pitch-perfect in their tessitura. Especially her. That one is such a delicate, rich, but easily overpowered timbre; it needs purity like this to shine. But when it does, she is beautiful.
♪ Friends can change the world,
♪ Wo-o-orld~
There's no other word to describe it but music.
♪ Friends can change the world you see!
And as the voices and piano fade, the applause and cheers rise. Along with mine. I get to my feet and stomp my hooves on the ground. Then she steps up to the microphone and says, "Thank you all so much, and thank you all for supporting the Ponyville Pet Center! Your admission donations will go straight to the cause."
Charitable. Pure. Unmodified. Raw. Natural. It's everything it's supposed to be to be perfect and wonderful.
But even as the ponies around me disperse, I can't stop looking at the finest, most extravagant thing in this simple production. How come I can't stop looking at her?
It's a good meal, really. The vegetables are sautéed nicely, the zucchini is tender, and the apple slices are quite unparalleled. But the entire presentation does look sort of . . . pedestrian, doesn't it? And it's not like there's a Chardonneigh that comes complimentary with the meal. I take another bite.
I sigh. These things really shouldn't bother me anymore. I should "stay true to who I am," right? That should mean that I shouldn't need all this fanfare and production going into a meal any longer. It's not like I even drank the wine that often. But every time I look, I can't help but think that everything is just too . . . simple for someone like me. That it shouldn't be touching my lips because it was made so simply. I lean in to take another bite. I pause, frozen halfway.
Closing my mouth, I push the plate away.
"Not hungry?" the waitress asks.
I snap back a little, startled. It's been a while since anypony like that ever spoke to me so frankly. Normally it's through one of my bodyguards or my manager. "Do not offend the countess with your common breath," he would say.
"Not . . . Not really. But thank you," I manage to return. The waitress nods and hoists the plate onto her back before taking it back into the kitchen. And while she is in the midst of returning a check to me (it's been a while since I've seen one of those, too), I look around again.
It's funny, really. It's not as if the world has changed at all since I saw it last. Only me, I guess. And perhaps less so than I would have liked, if just observing the world from this point of view still bothers me like this. What happened to that innocent filly who was so easily friends with AJ and her campmates, I wonder?
The commoners mill about outside the veranda of the restaurant, going about their evening business in the dying ruddy light, only hours left before nightfall. "We should get back to your trailer," I hear, "before the real unsettled vagrants start prowling about." And I always followed him.
I groan silently. He's gone now, gone far away to whatever "name" he wants to grow next. I would think I'd like to meet these folk and understand how they became so destitute. But after so long working with him, I wonder how much of him is still here, thinking for me, guiding what I do. His influence echoes long after his departure. He's still around in his own way. I want him gone.
I sigh. They talk so freely with each other, unbothered with any of the same issues I have. If one were so shallow to call them issues. But even two ponies heading in different directions, when they run in to each other, talk like they've known each other since foalhood. Even though they look like they haven't met before. But they say their goodbyes in time and leave me to my ruminations once again.
In the peace and quiet.
It's too quiet.
Not literally, no. There are plenty of ponies still at the diner, talking with their loved ones and making meaningless background noise. Well, I'm sure it's not meaningless. But they're all concerned with their own lives, while paying not a whit of attention to myself. No raving fans, no "hoofsie" lines. There's plenty of noise, but there's no noise.
One of the benefits—or drawbacks—to having such a fantastic stage presence, I guess. Though I see now that a fair bit of it wasn't even mine. In any case, my stage appearance is so different from my "natural" one that they're practically different ponies. They might as well be. They even have different names, for pony's sake. And I'm still trying to cast one off like the worthless chaff it's supposed to be.
But that does mean that the fame I found being the "Countess" doesn't at all transfer to being "Rara." Even the one time I performed as her, the shadow of the Countess loomed over heavily enough that everypony seemed to forget who Rara was—and what she looked like—when I returned to Ponyville a second time.
"Your check, Miss."
I jump again and look up. It's the waitress again, as I should have anticipated. Who knew I should feel more at home on stage, on full display, than when talking with a single waitress? "You don't need to associate with these peons, Countess," he would say. But I shouldn't be feeling this way either, right?
"Yes. Thank you," I say, taking the check without making a scene of it. I retrieve my bits and look at them like they were a foreign currency. It's not like I haven't seen them before, but it's been a very long time. Even he didn't use them: "You don't use pennies to buy a yacht," he said. But I do count out the bits I need—plus a tip of however much—and return my eyes to the commoners.
Oh. Goodness, it's her.
"Come on, Sweetie Belle, it's getting late. We need to get home," says that white mare, calling back to someone. Her perfect curls spring lightly up and down in the wind. They must have taken hours to perfect—no, I know they took hours to perfect. That time in the dressing room with the hairstylists whittles down patience easily.
And her accent sounds so . . . different. Everyone in Ponyville seems to speak with a somewhat Midwestern accent—AJ's heads farther south still—but here's a mare with an accent straight out of Canterlot. Accent to impress. And she carries herself like one of them, too.
I'm coming, I'm coming, Rarity!" yells a small filly, scampering up to the white mare. I recognize that one—she was one of the fillies I invited to perform with me. Sweetie Belle, I think her name was. The both of them together make a matched pair. They're probably sisters, like AJ and Apple Bloom.
The white mare—presumably Rarity—speaks again. "I know you were excited to see Fluttershy perform, but she just wasn't up for it tonight. You have school tomorrow, and I have another performance to attend to, so we need to . . ." Her eyes drift over to me, and when our eyes lock, her words stop.
She looks at me with pure, blue eyes under those elegantly coiffed lashes. From the eyeliner and eyeshadow to the light lipstick, her face is manicured to on-stage perfection. It speaks of the same fastidiousness that my beauticians worked on me with. Like fine china. But she knows how to paint that perfection herself—she did for me. She must have worked so hard for that look.
It crosses my mind that this is the first pony in a while who's looked at me with more than a passing glance. Does she recognize me? It feels like being on stage again, under the flashing lights and thumping bass. Not under the eyes of thousands, but with an audience of one. It's still enough to put adrenaline through my blood.
"Rarity?"
Said mare jumps at the sound, as do I, and the spell is broken. "Ah, sorry, Sweetie Belle. Let's go." Another flicker of a glance, then she trots off with the filly down the road and around a corner. I watch her as she goes, the perfect curls of her tail dancing to the tune of her hoofsteps.
It takes a few minutes for me to stop looking at the house she disappeared behind. But when I find my senses again, I groan and rest my chin on my hooves. I feel like a relapsed alcoholic. I can't want these things anymore. Svengallop is gone. But I wonder how much of him is still here, thinking for me, guiding what I do. His influence echoes long after his departure.
Why else would I be wanting all these things? Why else would I feel this way?
♪ See it now
♪ See it now,
I feel like a rat inexorably drawn into a trap; he knows it's going to kill him, but he goes for the prize anyway, succumbing to those baser instincts that don't listen to logic. Because "it's for the schoolchildren," I tell myself. That's why I'm here. I know it's a poor excuse.
♪ Let the rainbow remind you
♪ That together we will always shine
I know what I should be appreciating. And I do, I really do. They're all raw and pure and good. But in the back of my mind, I hear in his voice, "Such simpletons!" It's my will of habit battling against my higher mind, and neither side ever wins. I can justify and I can rebuke, but still he comes back time and time again.
Instead, I listen to her and her voice. It's so much easier that way. Her trained, sculpted, appropriate, beautiful voice. Just like the rest of her. She is an artist.
♪ Let the rainbow remind you
♪ That forever this will be our time
I don't understand. Perhaps it's just a case of Stockholm's, where I can't help but love the influence that caused me so much grief before. I know AJ's arguments, and I believe them. I don't need glitz and glamor. I'm at my best without so much production behind me. I don't need him anymore.
But ever since he left, I still hear his voice. Whether it be commenting on the common rabble in front of me, or otherwise telling me that I'm not being treated like a Countess should. I try to push him out, I really do.
She's what I was. The production that goes into her appearance. The frou-frou. The excessive attention to artistry. She's everything I'm not supposed to be anymore. But still I watch her, spellbound by a self I can't take my eyes off of but want so badly to.
♪ Let the rainbow remind you
♪ That together we will always shine.
I can't stay here. As soon as the concert ends and other ponies start applauding, I rip my eyes away from her and sneak out of the schoolyard among the noise, hoping I won't be noticed. The sounds of the ongoing concert behind me die down as I distance myself from my vices. Don't look back, I tell myself. Don't look back.
And so I wander the streets for a few minutes more, no purpose in mind, no destination in sight. I just came back to see AJ; I wasn't planning on staying more than a day, maybe two. Now she's captured my eyes and won't let me leave until I can cast her and everything she represents off for good.
I sigh and wander forth, my hooves lifting a small cloud of dust from the ground with every step I take. My head is filled with all these petty concerns. Even the dirt under my hooves sees it fit to offend me. Nothing less than Canterlotian marble should touch my hooves. That's what he said I needed. I don't know if he's right. But I glance off to the side to the main road, where it's paved, at least.
I lift my hoof to turn onto the main road, but I stop myself. No. That would be succumbing. I put my hoof back down and raise another little cloud of dust.
It's not like I was always this picky. My camp days with AJ were filled with dirt roads and muddy trails and soggy wades, and I was just fine with those. Svengallop wouldn't have even considered ever traveling to such an "uncivilized" place now. He wanted the oats from Appleoosa; he didn't want the dirt that came with it. But even as he's gone now, I find myself struggling to return to those roots. Even though I know that's where my true self is.
"Coloratura!"
My ears perk up. Nopony here ever addressed me with that name for a long time, and certainly not once during this visit. The only pony who recognizes me here now is AJ, and Rara's her nickname of choice.
"Countess! Can we talk?" the voice calls again.
Against my will, my hooves freeze in place. It's her voice. That accent, that timbre that bleeds of class, it finds its way inside me and arrests my thoughts. Like it does every time she sings or speaks.
She catches up easily—Rarity, I remember her name is. "Coloratura, what happened? You looked content with our performance for so long, but at the end of that number, you didn't applaud or say anything. You just . . . left." She comes into my field of vision. That perfect, gorgeous face of hers is twisted in concern. I look at her once, and I can't look away.
There must be a sort of magic in her eyes. I tell myself to lie. I tell myself that I'm tired, or I'm late for my train back home. I tell myself things that will have her leave me so I can muse in relative silence. But whatever it is in those eyes, I find myself saying things before my mind can catch up.
"I couldn't stay there anymore. I . . . I needed to think." Stupid.
Her face changes again, this time to something more pained. "Was it the song? Did we offend you? Did . . . I offend you?" she asks.
"No! No, not at all!" I retort quickly. "I just . . ." But with that out, I don't know what to say next. In a way, she did offend me. Just by being her, she reminds me of those things I can't want.
But those eyes. They keep looking at me, and I keep looking at her. They bore into my mind and draw out a question I've been meaning to ask.
"Why do you do it?"
"Hmm?"
I sigh. "You know. Be—" I gesture at her vaguely "—that."
"I . . . I'm afraid you're going to need to be a bit more specific, darling. Be what, exactly?"
"Be a production. Be so elite in Ponyville." Be like him.
Rarity bites her lip. "I don't . . . I don't quite know how to answer that. It's just who I am. I'm an artist, and I love making ponies look fabulous. And that love bleeds onto myself; I enjoy being fabulous."
That . . . That can't be all there is to it. She just enjoys being who she is? Not a bit about advancing her career? Not a bit about making a name for herself? She's just like him, though! I ask again, a bit more urgently, "But don't you want to make a name for yourself? Aren't you building your reputation?"
She opens her mouth for a moment before closing it again. She takes a few more moments to think before saying, "Those things are somewhat important to me, I suppose. Of course I want a name for myself in the fashion industry. But I'm not doing what I'm doing merely because I . . ." She trails off. She studies my eyes a little closer. I can't look away.
"This is about that manager of yours, isn't it?"
Now I motor my mouth for a few seconds without anything coming out. I don't want to say that she's right, but she is. Will I offend her by talking about it? She seems just like him. But then, she brought it up, so she must be expecting that I could say "yes." She really does seem more . . . open than he was. And I'm really having a hard time imagining those deep blue eyes taking offense.
In the end, I start talking. The words come easier the more I speak. ". . . Yeah. I've just . . . I've been hearing him. Every time I"—I scuff my hoof on the ground subconsciously—"walk on the dirt or eat at a common diner, Svengallop pipes up and tells me I need something more extravagant. Even though I know he doesn't work with me anymore. I've just been working with him for so long. I've always heard him. I still hear him."
Rarity turns to the side, breaking the spell for a moment, while she puts a hoof to her mouth in contemplation. I realize that this is the time. Not locked by her gaze anymore, I could leave right now and avoid the confrontation. My legs are free.
But . . . it felt good to unload, if just a little. And she listened, and she doesn't look that offended. My legs are free. But they choose to stay.
She turns back to me, sympathy now in those eyes. "Goodness, darling, that must be terrible to endure. Is that why you left the concert?"
"Yeah." It was one of the reasons, at least.
Her eyes are so deep and inviting. "Do you believe the things he says?"
Her single question is enough to bring all my struggles back to the forefront. I shouldn't, I really shouldn't. But ponies only keep talking to those who listen. Why would he stay unless he had an audience? "Yes. No? . . . I don't know. I don't know whether it's him or me doing the thinking anymore."
"Oh, you poor dear." She nudges forward and nuzzles my cheek. I stiffen at the contact. She's so soft. "Hearing his voice in your head all the time. It must be unbearable."
Against myself, I lean against her nuzzle, moving forward a little and crossing our necks. I can't help myself—he never did this. And her mere contact seems to lend me comfort. That feeling draws ever more words from my mind. "I don't know why he won't go away," I mumble.
I feel a hoof on the other side of my neck. She gives me a quick squeeze before backing up and saying solemnly, "Perhaps there's still a part of you that wants what he gave you, back."
"What? No!" I say emphatically. "He . . . how dare he use my fame to get what he wanted? How dare he threaten ponies by pulling me from concerts? How dare he care so little about the charity I want to do?" I will never again believe what anyone says about "technical difficulties."
I catch myself a moment later. Rarity has her mouth open in surprise. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled," I say.
She closes her mouth and looks at me again, her eyes softer than I've ever seen them. Softer than I've ever seen on anypony. "I think I'm finally starting to understand. One last question for you." She turns halfway and starts stroking her mane. That perfect, elegant, hours-went-into-it mane. She has a strange smile on her face. Almost pitiful. "I remind you of Svengallop, don't I?"
I . . . What a question. She's everything I need to cast off, I tell myself. Everything she represents is not being true to myself. I need to let those things go. But then again, Svengallop never behaved like this. In all my years working with him, he never sat down and had a heart-to-heart with me. He's who I really want to throw away for good. Am I trying to cast off a mare who's so much nicer than he was? Who's willing to listen to another mare's silly problems? Who sings for charity, just as I do? Who represents just as many virtues as vices?
Who are you?
"No! Y-yes? I don't . . . I don't know." It's this answer that tells me how lost I am in my own mind.
She takes a single step closer to me, that same strange smile on her face. Not looking at her is impossible now. There's some part of me still saying I shouldn't be looking at her, saying I'll fall into the past if I do it for too long. But that voice has been getting weaker. And then every part of my mind goes quiet as they stop to listen to her speak. Our faces are so close that she needs not do more than murmur softly.
"Countess Coloratura. Rara. Whatever you prefer. I don't blame you for trying to get rid of the voice inside your head. I don't blame you for thinking that means you can't have the 'glitz and glamor' anymore. And I don't blame you for thinking the same about me."
Her eyes flick to the side for just a moment before looking back to mine. Not even enough time to catch my breath. "But there's just one thing I want you to understand." She puts a hoof on my face in a needless gesture; I wouldn't have been turn away regardless. She whispers, "A want for beauty and luxury and chocolate-covered strawberries is not the same as a want for fame and fortune and stardom."
"I . . . What? But Svengallop was obsessed with growing my—and his—name." What is she trying to explain? Luxury and fame practically go hoof-in-hoof.
Her smile grows a little sad. "I know. He didn't understand the difference. But I want you to." She takes her hoof off me and backs up a few steps. "To finish answering your original question, yes, reputation is important to me. And the thought of my name in lights sounds grand. But all that is a distant second to who I really am." She moves her hoof in a wide sweeping gesture. "This. My love of beauty and fashion, not just on myself, but on the world. And my penchant for spreading that love wherever I can. That is what defines me, not whatever rapport that may or may not follow."
She steps forward again. "To put fame first is to lose yourself to the whims of others. To step on your friends where it may benefit your status. To look out for nopony but yourself. That's not what I want, and I don't think that's what you want, either. A desire for beauty is none of those things, and it's completely healthy."
She really sounds like she knows what she's talking about. Then again . . . "But AJ said to me that I didn't need that 'glitz and glamor.' That I needed to stay true to who I was. And she wasn't talking about the fame." I don't know who to trust. AJ's been a friend for so long, after all.
Rarity sighs, suddenly looking a year or two older. "Dear Applejack is a very good friend of mine too, but . . . she doesn't always appreciate the finer things in life. She normally doesn't encounter luxury, being a farmer and all. I don't begrudge her for it—maybe a little—but it means she doesn't always see the value in a makeover or a fine wine or a trip to the spa. But judging from what you've said to me, I think you would."
Now I sigh. "But we just got along so well in our summer camp days. I didn't want any spa trips back then."
She replaces her hoof on my neck. For reasons I can't explain, I feel a little better with it there. "Coloratura," she says, "ponies change. Applejack's been a farmpony for her whole life, so she hasn't changed much. But you found a big break. You became a pop star. I can't imagine after so many years of that, you wouldn't emerge a little different. A little more appreciative of the luxuries that come with being one."
She says those words so surely, but those words just don't agree with the reality I've come to understand. Luxury just feels like fame. Luxury is fame. I know she doesn't believe that. But I don't believe her. And I don't want to believe that I don't believe her. But I can't believe that I'm trying not to believe that I don't believe her. It all coalesces into a jumble of thoughts more confusing than when I started. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, I really am. I know you know these things, but I . . . I just don't understand."
She sighs and smiles ruefully again. "I know. I'm not offended. It took me my entire life for me to finally understand. And along the way, I made several terrible mistakes that almost cost me my friends. The things I've talked about, some of them I've experienced firsthoof. But at the very least, I hope you believe that I know whereof I speak. Whatever path you take, please don't make the same mistakes I did." With that, she finally releases me, and I take a step back to try and organize my thoughts.
This is just all so complicated. All I know right now is that I can't handle all these warring thoughts and personalities that have made their ways inside my mind. I can't deal with it all. I need to push someone away.
Svengallop is one of those personalities. And at the very least, if at the cost of my own sanity, I know what to do with him. I don't like him. Applejack clearly never liked him. And in talking to Rarity, even she doesn't like him. It makes it that much easier to finally, finally push him out of my head. Thank Celestia for that.
. . .
It's quiet. He's not there anymore. The darkness has passed.
In its place is the rustic mundanity and simplicity of Applejack's life. For me to return to that path, to return to my roots, has looked like the brightest path for a long while. It found me my love of music—raw, natural music—again. And it had me cast off Svengallop's toxic way—at least, for a little while.
But here's a third path, an in-between that I never knew until Rarity showed me what it was. A love of beauty and luxury while somehow keeping the vicious class-climbing and name-making that comes with it at bay. Keeping the morals and friends and charity that are so often not associated with all that. I don't understand that path. But Rarity does.
"I don't want to lose Applejack as a friend," I say, my heart pounding like I'm having a bout of stage fright.
"And you won't," she reassures me.
She's standing on the path, forging something I've never seen but want to explore. With her finally thoroughly detached from the oppressive shadow of Svengallop in my mind, my earlier encounters with her are cast in a different light. Her peerless beauty, gorgeous voice, and spellbinding style . . . it's not something I have to reject. Everything I saw is still there. Not just without a bitter edge, but sweeter than I've ever seen.
I look up to her eyes. Those deep, soft, welcoming eyes. What I've been seeing all along, and what I'm sure she's known about. I think she's been waiting for me.
She takes a single step forward, closing the distance between us, and extends a hoof to me in invitation. She smiles again, but it feels completely different. "Don't be scared. It's okay if you don't yet understand."
My hooves are trembling, but I can't help myself.
"Can you teach me?"
She nods once.
The seconds in the wings before the PA cues you in. The deep breath to steel yourself. The first step onto the stage, and the single pony in the audience, smiling softly, waiting for you to begin. You don't become a star without diving head-first.
I take her hoof.
Author's Note
Because RaraRarara somehow hasn't happened yet.
Ponytones songs are, in order of appearance, "Friends are Always There for You" and "Let the Rainbow Remind You."
