Good Things are Better...
At Ponyville's premier fashion emporium, the Carousel Boutique, in its upstairs workroom rolls of fabric and cut swatches were flying through the air. Three quills were busily making corrections on three separate designs. The fire-engine-red sewing machine was itself nearly venting smoke from being run continuously for over three hours.
And in the midst of it all, a violet-maned, ivory-white pony darted from pillar to post, her horn blazing with magic. Rarity was deeply, maniacally focused -- in the Zone, lost almost irretrievably in the Madness of Totally Absorbed Creation...
In other words, a normal Tuesday, when the work piled up.
So many ponies, wanting to look fashionable for the end of the week, she thought. So many orders. So busy!
Rarity sighed.
But it's worth it, she sternly reminded herself. I am in my element. This is my life's work. Nopony can create like I can. Nopony! I alone can make all this come together...
I am... a Rarity!
Ah... er...
The sewing machine suddenly fell silent. The quills dropped to the drafting tables. The flying swatches...swerved and safe-landed on work tables and shelving, so they wouldn't pick up dust from the floor. After all, she was a professional. Sudden shock didn't mean one simply dropped everything.
Rarity's gaze turned to the picture on the wall above her worktable. It showed a chubby, mustachioed stallion wearing a straw hat, together with a bouffant-maned pink mare grinning excitedly at the camera.
Father and Mother, Rarity thought. But it wasn't the thought of her parents that had made her pause, mouth open in shock.
It was a memory, of one particular almost-forgotten afternoon, many moons ago...
The main train station of Canterlot was very nearly a palace unto itself, what with its elongated platform and massive station building, and the huge clocks ticking away over the main entrances on both the platform and the avenue sides. The station's waiting area was richly furnished in finely-stained oak, with intricately frescoed woodwork decorating walls and ceilings. The floor-to-ceiling windows welcomed in brilliant cascades of warm sunlight, which gleamed from the glossy, impeccably-polished seats and benches.
At the main ticket counter, a sandy-maned conductor paused to mash a red-inked stamp on two forms, then file them, check a train schedule, adjust his glasses...
... and only then look up at the elderly, richly-cloaked unicorn facing him.
"Yes, ma'am?"
The matron gazed back calmly, steel-gray eyes under a steel-gray mane, determined not to show a hint of the impatience she felt. "One round-trip fare to Manehattan," she said loftily. "First class accommodations, of course."
Then as the conductor was looking up the price, she dipped a hoof in the purse slung from her neck.
And swore, softly.
"Something wrong, ma'am?"
"I don't believe it," she said, exasperated. "I remember everything else, simply everything. And now I find I've left my bit-bag at home. Gotten out of the habit of travelling these past few months, I suppose."
Grimly she fished around in the depths of the purse, first with her hoof and then cautiously with her magic. The thin, ice-white glow flickered and sputtered unsteadily as she dug about in the purse's depths. She finally came up with a single coin, which she dropped on the countertop.
"Never mind first class, then. Will this be enough?"
The conductor looked at the large gold coin with Celestia's regal portrait on it. Then he consulted the line he'd picked out on his price list. "'Fraid not, ma'am. Even going coach, you'd still be five bits short."
The matron considered this. And then removed a gold band with an emerald setting from her right front fetlock. She put it on the countertop. "May I leave this, then, as surety for paying the balance on my return? I simply must catch the train this afternoon."
The conductor frowned. "What am I, a pawn-shop?" At the matron's heated glare, he shrugged. "Besides, the one time I did cut a customer a break like that, the old biddy showed up again not half an hour later, with the cops in tow, claiming I'd stolen the ring she'd left. Nearly cost me my job. No thanks, ma'am. Not making that mistake again."
"I see. Yes, of course." The matron quietly took back the band, put it back on. And felt, rather than saw, other ponies in line behind her now. Probably just as impatient as she felt, right at that moment.
She growled softly.
"Fine, then. Would you please tell me the time of the evening train? I shall just have to return home and get the proper fare. Seems a shame though, for want of five bits."
"Is that all ya need?" said a surprised voice behind her. Then a muscular hoof tossed a five-bit coin on the counter. "Don't worry, ma'am -- I got ya covered."
The matron turned, affronted. She found herself facing a large, brown-maned, white-coated stallion. He was wearing a frayed straw hat, a huge mustache, and also -- the matron winced at the sight -- a Haywaiian polo shirt. With flowers on it. Clearly, a tourist of some kind.
Behind the stallion was a pink, blue-maned unicorn mare, smiling pleasantly. And behind her, leaning around to watch the proceedings wide-eyed and silent, was a small, violet-maned filly.
The matron shook her head, tapped her cane haughtily. "Out of the question. I've never had to stand on charity in my life, and I won't start now. I'm more than capable of paying my way... most of the time," she added, embarrassed.
The stallion was unruffled. "Don't sweat it, ma'am, it's no big deal. You happen to need five bits, and so happens I got five bits to spare. And c'mon, who wants to traipse all the way home, huh? Just for exact change? I know I wouldn't."
"Well." The matron nodded graciously. "I thank you kindly, sir. And I shall be certain to pay you back on my return." Then she looked sad. "Though honestly, the way things are at present, I might never see you again."
The stallion shrugged. "No problem. Pay it forwards, then. Help somepony else someday. After all, what goes around comes around, right?"
"Ah, yes. Of course."
Having obtained her ticket at last, the matron hobbled painfully over to the nearest of the long benches, leaning heavily on her diamond-knobbed stick with every step. She got herself settled comfortably. Shortly thereafter, she was joined by the tourist and his family, who sat down a short distance away from her.
I'm not with them, she told herself. Not beholden to them. Though I am extremely grateful. The train tomorrow, or even tonight, might have been too late. I simply must speak with Cerise, before she gambols off on another of her little world-explorer trips, the flighty dimwit. Explain things, so she understands how important this is, so it doesn't come as a shock. As if she can be shocked by anything these days, the little tramp. And she's the least useless, out of an entire family tree of bad choices...
In the midst of her angry musings, the matron found her attention distracted watching the little violet-maned filly, seated on the floor at her parent's hooves.
On the floor, the matron shuddered. Right on the dirt-covered floor.
The filly had opened a small travelling case and spread out an assortment of items to play with. One was a box of what looked like construction paper. There was a small drum of markers, and a few other items of an arts-and-crafts persuasion. The filly had a large square of butcher paper spread in front of her, and was using her forehooves to hold a stencil atop a piece of thin card stock. A pencil held in her magic traced out the boundary of the stencil, then she lifted it -- revealing an outline of a prancing pony.
A rather bare and spartan image, the matron thought. Little more than a suggestion of a pony shape. Not really complete...
"You got family in Manehattan, ma'am?" the tourist asked, breaking into her thoughts. "I mean, if ya don't mind me asking?"
"A cousin," the matron replied, a little stiffly. "She's... a relation. I wouldn't say we're all that close."
"Yeah, ain't that the truth." He nodded. "I got a sister in Van Hoover, myself. We exchange Hearth's Warming cards every year, but that's about it. Shame, really. But what can ya do?"
"Where are you from, yourself?" the matron asked, more to carry the conversation than out of a wish to know.
"Ponyville," he replied proudly.
She stared at him. "There are unicorns living in Ponyville?"
"Yep." He chuckled. "And I know what you're thinkin', ma'am. Hick town, local yokels, nothing fancy. Some of the inhabitants a little... colorful, right?" He gestured to his loud shirt. "Huh! It's all true. Every bit of it." He sighed. "And we wouldn't trade it for the world. Right, Cookie?"
"Oh, that's right," his wife said. "Ponyville's our home."
"Really," the matron murmured in disbelief.
"Yeah, really," the tourist said. "It's a nice quiet life, all round. Cookie here, she bakes and sews and does basket-weaving. She made my hat, if you can believe it." He gestured at it.
"I was wondering about that," the matron said dryly.
"And Hondo here," said his wife, patting him on the foreleg, "he works the farm. Well, it's more of garden patch out back. But that's more than enough for us to manage."
"And I do some fishing too," Hondo went on. "Plus odd-jobs, wherever I can find 'em, to put food on the table. It's kinda catch-as-catch-can, but somehow it works out."
The matron looked sour. "Did you never aspire to anything more?"
"Did once," Hondo admitted. "You probably noticed my cutie-mark, the three hoofballs?"
"I don't make a habit of staring at strange ponies' flanks," she retorted astringently.
"'Course not," he agreed, unoffended. "But when I was little, it was all I thought about. I figured, what with a mark like this, it had to mean I was headed for a sports career, right? Got all the way through college on an athletic scholarship. Played fullback for the school team. I was hoping to pull off a conversion, turn it into a pro career. Maybe even coach a team myself, in my golden years. And then, well..." He shrugged. "That didn't happen. So instead, I do a sports wrap-up column for the town paper. And maybe someday I'll manage a sporting-goods store, if the chips fall right."
"And I was hoping I might be a premier baker," Cookie said, dimpling sheepishly. "Oh, you shoulda seen me, when I was a filly -- flour up to my ears, for Celestia's sake! But well, the Cake family's pretty much got the baking thing sewn up in Ponyville, so..." She tossed her hooves. "I do an occasional run of treats, when there's a bake-sale on at the school or the community center. And I make hats and decorative bowls and wastebaskets. And that's all right by me." She grinned broadly. "It's just how the Cookie Crumbles!"
"That line gets older every time she says it," Hondo stage-whispered behind a hoof. Cookie gently swatted him, and the two of them laughed companionably. "But when all's said and done," Hondo went on, "we're happy with our life. It's simple. There's no rushing around, feeling like you're late for something you've forgotten, even when you've already checked the calendar five times."
"That's right," Cookie added. "We make our own schedule, so we've time to ourselves. And for our little Honey Biscuit."
Hearing her name, the violet maned filly looked up, then smiled politely. Then she quickly refocused on the pony shape she'd traced out. She was busily cutting it out with a pair of safety scissors held in her magic.
"And plus," Hondo said, "in Ponyville, when you need a favor or just an extra hoof with something, there's always somepony around to ask. Somepony who won't mind pitching in for a bit. Because what goes around, comes around. Ya know?"
"I am beginning to see," the matron replied. Then she returned her attention to the filly. "What is that she's doing, down there?"
"Oh, it's just her paper dolls," Cookie said indulgently.
"Paper... dolls?" the matron asked scornfully. "As in, dolls made out of paper?"
"Oh, my word, yes!" Cookie said. "She just loves playing paper dolls. I mean, we've bought her cloth dolls and plush dolls. Even this little porcelain pony, with the loveliest little gingham petticoat. Oh, you should see it, ma'am. It's so dear! And Honey loves it too, I can tell. But when she wants to play, she just goes right back to her paper pony dolls. She dresses them up, changes their little outfits around. It's so sweet."
"Hey, whatever works, right?" Hondo grinned. "And it's amazing, we almost don't even need a foal-sitter. Just give her a box of construction paper, her bucket of markers, some glue and string and glitter and stuff, and she's literally quiet for hours."
"Indeed." The matron observed Honey Biscuit, sternly. The filly had pulled sheets of construction paper from the box, and markers from the bucket, and was cutting out little strips and swatches of color, which she used to decorate the bland pony form. Not gluing them in place, not yet. She was shifting them around, trying them out different ways. Trimming here, adding just a little touch of highlight and glitter there...
She wasn't just playing, she was designing.
And she was getting it all wrong.
The matron snorted, and rapped her cane, making the filly look up in surprise. "One would never wear that color bonnet with that cloak," she remarked coldly. "And those stripes, what are we? A zebra? No no no, my dear. The colors must complement each other, not fight for attention, mmm?"
The filly stared at her briefly. Then, instead of crying or being angry at the sharp words, she turned back to her tools. She cut out some new pieces, this time in agreeable colors, and with milder hints at accents.
The matron nodded at the result. "Passable," she allowed. "But it still lacks for something. What is it we are not seeing here?"
The filly thought about it. And then she reached behind her for a large notebook, which she held up.
"Maybe you could point it out to me?"
The filly opened the notebook with her magic, and paged through it. And on every page, neatly laid out, were nine of the little bland cardboard ponies. Each of them was wearing a completely different ensemble. It was a miniature catalog of style. Some were naive and garish, particularly in the early pages. Yet there was a definite sense of a progression, of an artiste feeling her way, discarding the old and adding the new, improving with every step, finding her own sense of style.
"Yes. Quite good really," the matron allowed. She considered it. "Perhaps what is needed is to kick it up a notch, hmm? Have you considered adding a little extra dimension to your work?" At the filly's questioning gaze, the matron sighed. "You do know about pleats, I assume? Rather common and garish if overdone. But applied judiciously, they can add just a touch of flair."
As example, she held up the skirt of her own dress, showing how it gently shifted from flat in front to the merest hint of pleating towards the back, making it distinctive when viewed from any angle.
The filly nodding, getting it. She cut out a swatch of paper, and then began laboriously trying to put tiny folds into it.
"You'll be at it all day, doing it like that," the matron objected. "Sometimes, dear heart, it's right to apply just a little shortcut -- if I may?"
With her stick, she drew over the swatch of paper, then placed a hind-hoof on one end of it to steady it. Then with the end of her stick she shoved at the thin paper sideways, quickly and brutally, causing the paper to scrunch up into a fan of tiny folds.
She gingerly pushed the result back towards the filly. "Not my best work," she said. "But you get the idea."
"Oooo..." The filly grabbed up the swatch of paper and stared at it, a smile growing on her tiny face. Then, instead of simply adding it to her design, she cut out another swatch of paper, and tried it out herself, producing an improved version. Then she cut another piece, and tried applying force in a different direction, to see what would happen. In short order she had half a dozen variations before her to choose from. Picking one, she used a marker to add just the merest hint of highlighting to the pleated section, before adding it to the pony in front of her.
And the matron marveled, watching the child's quiet industry. It almost made the pain easier to bear, watching the little filly at play, so busily creative, so focused on her work.
"No wonder you don't play with store-bought dolls," she remarked quietly. "After all, why be limited to second-best, when you know that you can do better, eh?"
"Oh, yeah!" Cookie said proudly. "When it comes to clothing, ma'am, she can be quite the little dictator. Everything has to be just so. She says when she grows up, she wants to be a really famous designer. Like, ya know, making costumes for the school play, and that kind of thing?"
"Really," the matron replied with a flat look.
"And we support her, all we can," Hondo agreed. "I mean, after all, if you're doing what you really like, it doesn't seem like work, now does it?"
He smiled at Cookie, who smiled back. "Not one bit, dear," she said.
And then both of them smiled down at the filly, still focused on her design work.
The matron nodded. "Quite so." And she quietly reached a decision. She rapped her cane again, sharply, catching the filly's attention, then looked her right in the eye.
"You know what, darling?" she said. "You... are a rarity. You and your parents, both. And with talent like yours, I expect you'll make something of your life. Something... truly fabulous..."
Her mouth open, the filly stared. And then she beamed happily. The matron nodded at that. Oh yes, one could have one's own vision, one's own sense of style, which no one in the world had the right to doubt or question.
But just a hint of praise every now and then, from an expert, when it was well-deserved --
Well... that never got old.
A few days later, back in Ponyville, Hondo tramped into the house, fishing rod over his shoulder, a few letters clutched in his hoof.
"Cookie!" he called. "Mail's here."
"Oh, anything good?" She looked up from her worktable where she was busily assembling an entire lamp and shade from dried reeds. On the floor beside her, Honey Biscuit was busily constructing an entire page-full of pony dolls, a complete line of outfits for an imagined season she'd planned out.
Hondo set down the rod, and shuffled through the letters. "Hmph," he said, holding one up. "This one looks official."
"Uh oh. What is it?"
"What am I, a mentalist, dear? Gimme a sec." He opened it, read the brief letter within, written in fine calligraphy on starched, embossed paper.
And then he looked up. "It's some bank-manager, up in Canterlot, writing about some big trust fund that's just been opened... in our name."
"What did you say?" Cookie stared at him.
"Says some big designer or other, up there in the city, has left us her estate. He'd like to drop by and discuss the details, whenever it's convenient."
Cookie was speechless. Hondo sighed.
"Sorry to tell you this, hon. It looks like we're rich now."
"Oh!" Cookie considered that for a moment. "Well... does this mean we're still going to the potluck on Friday?"
"Course it does," Hondo replied. "We're not gonna change how we live. We've got a good thing going here. Don't wanna lose that."
"I wonder who it was," Cookie said. Then her eyes lit up. "You know, it's gotta be that elderly pony we talked to, at the train station in the Royal City? I mean, who else could it be? Oh my gosh! Does the letter even say who she was? We never asked her name, for Celestia's sake..."
"Not a hint," Hondo said. "In fact it says here, 'the client's express wish was that this bequest be made anonymously.' Huh, that was nice of her -- really nice."
"Well..." Cookie hedged. "It doesn't seem right, does it? Accepting somepony's life savings, without even knowing her name. Not even knowing who to thank for it."
Hondo turned the letter over. "Hang on a minute. There's something written on the back: 'P.S. In case you're wondering about accepting this, remember what you taught me about paying it forwards. You and your very creative little daughter.'"
The two of them looked at Honey, who had finally been drawn out of her design bubble and was staring up at them in puzzlement. "What does the letter say, Daddy?"
Hondo smirked.
"It's from somepony who cares about ya, darling -- a lot," he said.
"Almost as much as we do, dear," Cookie added feelingly.
Back in her shop, Rarity quietly got up from her sewing machine. She trotted over to her design shelf, where she filed the best of her work for later review and idea-generation. Digging around on the top shelf, she found the battered old notebook and opened it.
She stared at the pages and pages, rows and rows, of little dressed-up paper ponies, yellowed and faded now. A rather nice antiqued effect really, she thought automatically.
She looked around at her shop, the glistening, ultra-stylish Boutique, which simply screamed glamour and high fashion wherever one looked. Which her parents had so generously bankrolled for her, allowing her to begin her career as designer and fashion aesthete while she was still a little filly in school.
And then her gaze fell on the framed poster from her most recent presentation. Her logo, the stylized "R" and the sultry eyes gazing out at one. The trademark of one pony, one pony alone, the brand name she had adopted, right from the very start, to help her stand out above the crowd:
Rarity
My entire career, she thought. My shop, my desire to be a top-notch designer, even my name and my whole persona --
It had all come from a single act of generosity by her parents. Literally, a toss of a coin. And from a nameless matron, whom their generosity had managed to influence, right at the very end of her own lengthy career.
Pay it forward, indeed, Rarity thought, feeling a little devastated. The thing was, it was so happenstance. So incredibly fortunate, a chance meeting that if missed, might never have happened again.
Then she smiled.
"It's like Applejack once said." She nodded proudly. "Good things are so much better......when they're a rarity..."
The End
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, its characters and indicia are the property of Hasbro.
No infringement is intended. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by fans for fans of the series.
Author's Note
