Second Place Trophies

by KorenCZ11

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Rarity
Length: 2704

When Rarity was a filly, she always wanted to be a star on the stage, playing her heart out on the piano. Life, however, doesn't always go the way we want it to.

When Rarity was a filly, she always had dreams of growing up to be a star of the stage, a masterful player of the piano, and the center of attention. As time went by though, something just never clicked. What we wish for and what we're able to accomplish are often two different things.

First place winner of the Quills and sofas Colorful Characters Speed Writing Contest #3: Rarity

Published 2020-02-03 18:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2020-02-03 18:10:01 UTC

A Natural Feeling

When I was very little, I always loved hearing music. My parents had lots of money, we were fairly well off as a little unit, and until my little sister was born, I was the sole focus of their love, money, and attention.

They would bow to my whims, we would go see performances at the opera, go hear concerts play, but more than anything, we would go watch piano recitals. I loved to hear the keys struck. A masterful set of hooves could play anything and everything, all by itself. The piano was an instrument of sole control, the instrument that could sell you the soul of an artist by itself, a vehicle for a wordless story, the very idea of independence. The piano was free.

When Sweetie was born, however, it was determined that she had a talent for music. The magical process for looking into a newborn soul and seeing what hidden gems might be lying in wait in there uncovered that she possessed something that would eventually make her good at it. Something that, when cut and polished to the right degree, could make her a star.

My mother always told me that envy was an ugly thing. A corrupting force that could drive perfectly good ponies to do terrible things to others that was just as disgusting as it was natural. Until I heard that she would one day be good at the thing I so desperately desired, I never understood those words. Natural, indeed.

Years would go by, Sweetie would grow, and the telltale signs were there. Destiny was at play, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t fight against it. With cracked hooves, with sore wrists, with blurry vision after hours and hours of repetition. I wanted to fill that vision so badly that I worked and worked and worked to obtain it. To wear the shimmering red dress, to sit in the spotlight, to have all eyes on me, to bare my soul to an entire theater, for everypony to hear what I play.

In April of the year I turned eight, I was going to have my first competition recital. I’d been taking lessons, I’d been practicing without rest, and I had mastered that piece to the point where I could play it blindfolded in the dark and turned around with my hooves behind my back. I wanted it to be just perfect, so I went to work on making the outfit I would wear. A shimmering red dress, just like the one the mare from my memories wore, something that would contrast my white coat against the black of the piano, something that would bring the eyes all to me.

I hadn’t tried it before, but as it happened, sewing came very easy. I enjoyed making my dress, I enjoyed learning how the stitching came together and once it was done, my parents told me what a wonderful job I’d done. I’d… never heard them say that about my playing.

Something… didn’t feel right, after that day. The dress fit my small frame perfectly, it garnered the attention I wanted, but when it was finally my turn to play, I received… middling scores.

‘Great performance, but you lean too heavily on the sustain pedal. Your notes aren’t very crisp and the piece comes out muddily as a result. 2’

‘You looked stunning, my dear, but while there were no missed notes, your playing lacks a certain… feel to it. Your technique is nearly correct, but the piece is very technical in nature, so you must pay attention to accents and volume markings. 2’

‘You could use some improvement. You have good hoofwork, and seemingly an eye for design, but your attention to phrases and accents is lacking. When next you compete, make sure you look at your piece carefully as to not miss any markings. 2’

I listened to the other foals play, some of them already even having their cutiemarks, and in truth, the judges were right. One foal in particular received perfect scores for his piece, the very same piece I played, and he deserved it. I could feel it. The sound, the story, the emotion, his desire to share it with those who heard it. I wanted to do that. After hearing my own recording, I couldn’t help but realize just how inferior my own performance was by comparison. After all that work, just to… fall behind?

This was… only my first taste of defeat.

As the years went by, my parents hired a private tutor, and I was taught to be the best of the best from the best. The very mare I admired, who spurred me to become the star of the stage, was hired to teach me the piano, and teach me she did. Drills and practice, discussion of theory, application of theory, I learned everything there was to playing, reading, and composing music that she had to offer.

Yet, every time, I just fell short. Third, fourth, second, second, second. A trophy for each year, a loss for each year. A room full of silver medals. I kept making new dresses, trying my hardest to show that I could be the star, but I was no full-figured mare, and based on my parents stature's, I never would be. I could make my clothes to work around that, but that was never the problem. It was always my playing that kept me in second. It never seemed to matter the work I put into it, there was always somepony more talented right around the corner who would come in and show me up, and even I would have to admit that there was no way I could compete.

How did it keep happening? Why did it keep happening? In the April of my thirteenth year, I would learn.

I hadn’t thought about it much, but every time I lost a competition, it was always to somepony with a cutiemark for the piano, for music. Somepony whose destiny it was to become a star of the stage, to bare their soul without words, to make emotion flow from their hooves. In that April, just before May when the next national competition would be, I made every dress I could possibly conceive that would make me stand out among the ponies who came. I enjoyed every minute of it. I was good at sewing, and I knew how to work my way around even the most delicate of fabrics. If I could just make the right dress, then surely my music could match my talents here.

How cruel can the world be? Years and years of my childhood devoted to the practice, study, and pursuit of playing my favorite instrument, only for all of that work, all of that effort, all of that hope to be dashed in the face of my own cutiemark.

A… a talent for making dresses? For outfits? For fashion? This… this isn’t what I wanted! This can’t be right! I wanted to be the star! How can I be on the stage if I’m in the back making the clothes!? This is all wrong, this is all wrong!

In a way, it was my second taste of defeat. In an instant of revelation, my dreams were crushed into dust. Why did I always lose even when I practiced? Why did I always lose even when I put in every effort? Why could I never seem to win? The answer was simple. I just wasn’t talented enough.

I would fight it, certainly. Mama didn’t raise a quitter, but… in the end, that dream never did pan out. New hoof-breaking pieces, even longer and more complicated every year, just to prove I could beat them, just to prove that my cutiemark wouldn’t define my life, only to be beaten and swatted back into my place each time. I would make friends with the other top players, I would try to learn their tricks, but something they did that made their music so much more than mine, or even just better than mine, was always something I could never reproduce. I fought against my fate for the longest time. Then, I made a grievous error.

I taught Sweetie how to read music.

She would play, and I would be mesmerized, and I would give her another piece, and in an instant, she would pick it up, learn it to the point I knew it, then surpass me. She would go on to compete just like I did, except… where I could never win first, she always did.

Envy is as disgusting as it is natural.

I hated her. I was jealous of her talents, I wanted to demean her accomplishments, I wanted to rip everything away from her because she had what I wanted, and I couldn’t earn that even if I tried. But more frustrating than anything was her ability to take what she had for granted. She was blessed with an ability that just came naturally to her; winning again was never much of a big deal. Eventually, she found that she liked singing more and dropped playing entirely.

If only I had what you do, I’d put it to better use than you ever could!

But, c’est la vie, as they say. I never gave up playing. I never gave up trying to be the star I always wanted, but later on in life, when I tried to move out on my own and make my own living, away from the suffocating air of my disgustingly talented little sister, I found that… I’d been taking my own talents for granted. What I wanted to do was not what I was blessed with the ability to do exceptionally.

In a little town, miles away from my parents, from the big city of Manehattan, I found that nopony here really knew how to make formal clothing. How to do repairs that didn’t ruin the fabric, how to make the casual... fashionable. From a little apartment that cost little to nothing to rent, I made a business. I made clothes, I did repairs, I sold formal wear and taught ponies how to dress properly.

I met a very shy pegasus who always wanted to make clothes just like the characters in her comic books wore, but could never get it right. She commissioned me to do it for her, and every time, I could see just exactly how I would put it together. She had the body and the looks to be a star, but didn’t have the nerves or the talent. It was the day that she confided in me that made me look at myself in a different way.

She said, “Rarity, can I tell you something?”

Naturally, I said she could tell me anything, but what I received wasn’t quite something I’d anticipated.

“For a little while there, I hated you. I never knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life, but I always knew I wanted to make outfits like the characters in my stories and comic books. I always thought that with time, it would just come eventually. Any skill can be developed with enough practice, can’t it? But… I never could get anything just right. I could always get close, but there was always something missing from my own work.

“When you moved here and ponies started talking about your little shop, I thought that maybe you could teach me what I was doing wrong but… it was… more than that. Something about the way you see how to put these outfits together was out of reach for me. Everything I asked of you, you did it flawlessly, always coming back to me faster than I could do it myself with better results that I could never hope to reproduce.

“I… I got so jealous that I started to… to want to hurt you, however I could. You… you had everything I wanted. Even now, I still find it frustrating when you say things like, ‘Oh, it was just another piece,’ and ‘I’ve done better before.’ You’re so talented that you can’t even see what a gift you have and… it’s upsetting, really.

“I think I hate this nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach more than anything in the world. You aren’t somepony who deserves to be felt about that way, but… that doesn't make seeing you dismiss your own ability any less frustrating. I know that you like to complain about the things you could never accomplish, but can't you see that you have your own talents to be envied for?

“I appreciate what you do, Rarity. More than you could possibly know. Maybe it makes me bitter sometimes, and that dark feeling has its days, but… more than that, I’m just glad you’re around to be my friend. I, um… I’m sorry I unloaded all that on you. I just… needed to get it off my chest.”

I was silent after that. Well, not really, I of course thanked her for telling me and we had a nice afternoon discussing the next object of her desires, but once she was gone, I certainly did have to sit back and take stock.

Her? Of all the ponies in this world, she was jealous of me? But she’s so tall and slender, and her figure is something to be prized! How could she… And then, as if it had fallen from the roof and directly onto my head, I let my gaze fall upon my piano, where it gathered dust and served as a makeshift table in my apartment.

Envy is as disgusting as it is natural.

Envy is the rot of the soul. An ugly thing embedded within us that we just can’t seem to let go of after hundreds of thousands of generations. It is a dark thing with evil intentions and must be fought against with the most rigorous good will one can muster. If envy is natural, then gratitude is a discipline.

To be grateful, to be accepting, to be satisfied with one’s lot in life, is to combat envy. But just like any other discipline, it is easy to forget how to show gratitude, and with each day you don’t, the envy in your heart grows that much stronger. I may not have ended up where I wanted to be, but I am grateful for what I have. Wishing for what others had didn’t bring me success, but practicing what I was good at and honing my craft did. And it took a good friend showing me how easy it was to lose sight of that to realize how far I’d fallen.

Sweetie would grow up to be a star. And I would never hold that position. But, though it was my original plan, that wasn’t where my talents lay. After Fluttershy had shared her feelings with me, I felt the need to call my little sister and do the same. Of course, she always wished she could make dresses like mine to match her when the day came that she took the stage. The spark was there, coming as easily as anything natural does, but Sweetie’s envy never consumed her. Mine… was still a work in progress.

When she goes out to sing, to be the star of her operas and concerts, she wears the dresses I always imagined I would up on that stage. It couldn’t be me. But as long as it was her, as long as the world knew that I was there with her, then I was satisfied with that.

These days, I look back on all those second place trophies, not with the hatred for failing to be greater, but satisfied that I could even do that much without a real talent for it. Through practice and sheer effort and the force of my will, I made that happen. I came within inches of beating ponies who were born to play and become stars, and even without their talents, I had them by the coat tails.

Envy is as disgusting as it is natural.

But gratitude is as sweet as it is rewarding.