Rarity sat in the corner of the banquet hall, the stem of a wine glass held gently by the aura of her magic as she scanned the room. Everypony was dressed the same, generally speaking: darker colors, blacks and proper, somber formal attire. Her vision was even obscured slightly by the transparent veil she wore, though she thought it didn’t detract much from her appearance, even if it obscured the impeccable make-up work she’d done before donning it.
She could still pick out several ponies in the crowd from glance, however: Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis, with whom she had arrived; Coco Pommel, who wore a marvelous dress that seemed inspired by a piece she’d designed for a Bridleway showing of Company; Sassy Saddles, dressed in an outfit that seemed entirely fitting for her usual day-to-day ware, likely because she’d rushed from a shift at Rarity’s boutique not fifteen minutes before the funeral began; Filthy and Spoiled Rich, who she had the fortune and misfortune respectively of sitting next to at the service and on the train ride from Ponyville.
There were a dozen others she could list, only a few faces she couldn’t put a name to at the snap of a sewing clip, and even fewer that she couldn’t recall at all. Even though it was a reception for the death of a fashion icon, it had been kept a small affair. That was to be expected from Flash Ensemble: even if he was a pillar of the Equestrian, Manehatten and Canterlot fashion scenes, he always kept a small group of acquaintances. Sure, he talked to ponies at parties and entertained conversation at fashion shows, but when it came to his private time, where he showed his true brilliance and shared his techniques, he preferred to keep the circle small.
Rarity had actually thought it a miracle when she was invited to a private affair a dozen years ago, all thanks Fancy Pants of course. A helpful pony putting your name in the ears of the upper echelons of business and society was needed to forge a path to success, as much as your own ambitions and talent. As she took a sip of her wine, she was pulled back to the present for a moment when Fancy Pants himself approached.
She made conversation, shaking the hoof of the gentlecolt he introduced: Silk Bolt. She repeated the name in her head as she looked into his light blue eyes and noted both the wings on his back poking out of the well-crafted holes of his suit and the light magenta color of his coat and feathers, contrasting nicely with the chartreuse colors of his mane. She repeated several more details about him: knew Flash Ensemble for eight years, works as a textile factory manager, has a daughter working on new industrial sewing machine designs.
Beyond all of that she let the details fall away. Something about Fancy Pants mentioning the needs of Rarity’s new line coming this winter and some financial agreement to secure supplies. Rarity merely nodded her head and drank more gentle sips of her wine. Her thoughts right now were on her appearance. She fussed over if her hair still looked well-kept, if her make-up had begun to run from the crying she’d done during Fleur’s speech, and if the shine of her coat still betrayed the natural fading of its colors.
She wondered if anypony thought she had cried too much, or not enough, and how they would think of her after the fact. It wasn't likely to change the opinions of close friends, but she had known an excessive display of emotion to end one or two business arrangements in the past. Her thoughts seemed selfish as soon as she was pulled back to the conversation by mention of Flash’s passing.
“It was coming for a while.”
“The diagnosis was never favorable.”
“We’re thankful he got as many extra years as he did, and that we had the chance to share them.”
Somepony else had joined the conversation, but Rarity didn’t see who it was. Her eyes were on the glass held in her magic. She could see it was empty through the blur of tears.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, feeling the faint dampness on her cheeks as she turned away from the group and headed back towards one of the serving tables. On the trot there, she thought back to Flash Ensemble.
The first thing to come back to mind was his appearance, but it was tainted by that look into the casket that she shouldn’t have dared. His coat, mane and face all just looked wrong, still and lifeless, lacking the color and presence of life. At least she could still remember his eyes: aquamarine and glimmering with creativity and a desire to create. She pushed those away, thinking instead of the times they shared.
She thought of all the years she’d spent talking to him about topics she’d longed to discuss with a paragon of her industry: design, inspiration, creative droughts, fabric, logistics, colors and more. Those talks were the fanciful daydreams of her youth, and yet she’d been able to live them, learn from them, take them to heart. It was how she had avoided missing a shipment deadline by scheduling it for three days after the initial estimate. It was why she still kept a diary despite it seeming a foalhood obsession. It was why she even really had new designs at all. That was probably giving him too much credit.
She filled up her glass again with a fifth helping of Merlot, what she’d always drank when talking with Flash, and turned back to look at the crowd. Now that she thought of it, she had dozens of icons like Flash since growing up, yet she never really dwelled on how many of them had come and gone without a chance for her to mean them, to talk with them.
Sure, she could read about color theory in Brazen Hoof’s books or proper stitching techniques in Laurel Lace’s, but there was so much more they could have said. Valiant Vogue, Lockstitch, and Defiance: what would the room look like if they were still here as well? Some of them Flash even talked fondly of. Perhaps they would be hit harder than she was now.
She began to feel her legs aching once more, and shuffled her way over to the closest seat that she could find, restraining herself from groaning as she sat and the pain subsided again. So many stars she’d looked up to in the night sky were gone. The dampness on her cheeks grew stronger, and she could feel it trickling down her neck. She closed her eyes, taking slow breaths until it began to fade.
When she opened them, a young mare was sitting across from her at the table. Her dress was much simpler than a lot of others at the affair, even Rarity’s own, and it was a slightly brighter shade of black that complimented the deep violets of her coat. A very stylish mane cut of pinks and blues framed her face, as she’d forgone wearing a veil. Her voice was sweet, with a gentle squeak to it, as if she were nervous. It reminded Rarity of herself too many times to count.
“I’m sorry, Rarity? I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said, her front hooves rubbing against each other gently.
“Not at all, darling,” Rarity replied, after taking a moment to ensure her voice wouldn’t shake with the words. “Did you know Flash long?”
Her gaze turned down to the table at the question and she shook her head. “N-no, I didn’t. I’m only here through my uncle, Silk Bolt. Do you know him?”
“Ah, not well, I’m afraid. I was introduced earlier, though. I hope your family is doing well. I understand your uncle knew him for a good many years.” As she spoke, Rarity reached her hoof across the table to gently touch the young mare’s fetlocks and put her glass down. After a few moments of silence, she realized her faux pas. “Oh, goodness, I didn’t even ask your name.”
“It’s Velvet, Velvet Muse.” Velvet smiled at the touch, and looked up from the table to Rarity. “I wanted to umm, talk to you, if you had the time. I know it’s probably selfish, while you’re grieving, but…” Velvet trailed off and glanced away.
“Oh, no, no, Velvet. I’m more than happy to talk. Whatever it’s about is probably a bit of a break from the day so far.” Rarity lifted her glass and took a sip. For a moment she dwelled on her own thoughts. If anyone was truly being selfish, it was her, right? Thinking about her appearance or business deals. Even now she was still thinking about Flash and all those other stars in her night sky and grieving what could have been instead of what was. She could at least offer this young mare an ear.
Velvet blinked and locked her eyes with Rarity’s again. “R-really? I mean, it’s... about your work. I’m sure you get ponies asking about that all the time. It’s probably a bother.”
Rarity laughed and put the glass back down, hoping that her veil hid the slight blush on her cheeks. Even if ponies asked about it often, it always seemed to heighten her spirits. “Well, yes, but it’s never a bother to talk to a fan. Is it about the newest line? I hear it’s quite the hit with mares your age.”
“No, it was, well, my mother had one of your dresses she bought when she was younger, from when you first opened your store in Canterlot. I loved the way the colors mingled and the stitching and… I know you probably find people gushing about your work now, but you’ve always done such a brilliant job. Even now I can see your early work reflected in these newer pieces and…”
Velvet continued to talk, and Rarity listened, but her eyes were on the glimmer of creativity and joy in the mare’s eyes, and her thoughts were on that night sky of her dreams. Her stars were going out, or gone, but she realized she could still be one in the sky of countless others. She leaned forward, set her drink aside, and shared everything that Velvet would listen to: creativity, technique, design, colors, fond memories of Flash Ensemble, laughter and tears.
