‘I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?’
She was five, and her mother had woven pretty flowers, the colour of her coat, into her mane. The simplistic beauty had shone pure in the purple ringlets, soft with the warmth of tender childhood.
She had watched in eager appraisal as her aunt, clad in the most beautiful white dress he had ever seen, glided elegantly down the aisle, glowing with sort of a matrimonial bliss. Atop her aunt’s head sat a gilded tiara, encrusted with sparkling clear jewels- diamonds.
She had trailed after her aunt all night, touching the sparkly dress almost reverently, until the bride and groom wanted a moment alone and her father had to pull her gently away.
She had fantasised about princesses in ballgowns and princes in dashing suits, falling in love at first sight, sharing a magic kiss, living happily ever after in stately castles, with huge rose gardens and walls crawling with honeysuckle vines.
She had been enamoured with the idea of having a big, flowery wedding, of playing families, of finding that special somepony, of being devoted and devoted to- of being special.
A child’s fantasy, a small delight. She had believed in true love her entire life. Perhaps not love at first sight, for in her mind, there was no such thing. You couldn’t establish deep, caring feelings for someone based only on one glimpse.
And yet, the hopeful part of her had wished that maybe, just maybe, it was true.
She had been seven when her aunt had divorced her uncle.
She had been eight when her mother had told her that the tiara had been not diamonds, but glass.
She was thirteen, when her heart had been broken for the first time. Clean Cut from her Art History class had seemed so nice at first- polite, sweet and handsome, she had been delighted when he asked her out to the Art Gallery one weekend.
She had spent a superficially happy two months going on enjoyable but rather predictable walks around campus with him, before she caught him with another filly at a party.
She had gone home and cried her eyes out for a week, cursing herself for being so foolish and naive. She had been so taken, so enamoured with the idea of being in love that she failed to see what had been going on right under her nose for the past eight weeks.
She had not been able to recognise that he was a player, and she was the game.
She hadn’t liked him that much anyway.
She was eighteen, and the most popular filly in Canterlot High. Her face was free of blemishes, her friends honoured to be by her side, invitations to parties and social gatherings were abundant in nature. Her sense of style was excellent, her grades less so, but that didn’t matter, because she worked harder than she cared to denote.
Her coltfriend at the time had been a young stallion called Dapper Shine. His parents were wealthy, but he had never bragged about it, never boasted it. He was a genuinely nice stallion, with a decent sense of humour and an aura of eloquence around him. And his looks didn’t hurt either.
They were in the running for prom king and queen, and everypony knew they would win. She was popular, generous, pretty. He was funny, athletic, genuine. He was pined for, and he knew it- but he was loyal. Or at least, she thought he was. Rarity had thought he was perfect coltfriend material.
Apparently, Adagio Drizzle had thought so too.
It seemed to her that sometimes love could be labeled a poison, and she’d keep drinking it regardless. We all eat lies when our hearts are hungry.
She had ignored the other filly’s flirtatious hoof on her coltfriend’s shoulder, ignored the fact that he was always a tiny bit louder around her, ignored the way they seemed to talk to each other as if nobody else was there. She shut out all the red flags that screamed he was losing interest in her, fast.
And when she saw them sitting together at lunch, under the tree where she had always sat with him, she felt her heart slowly cracking into a thousand tiny shards, with the pressures of maintaining her reputation as her only adhesive.
She watched as he curled his foreleg around her shoulder, rubbing it in a way that made her feel the ghost of his touch on her skin. She watched as her shallower friends, desiring only to climb the social ranks, flocked to Adagio one by one, like moths to a garish flame.
She watched as that year, the gaudy, plastic crown was lowered onto the other girl’s head, and not her own. As her grades plummeted, her motivation slumped, her creativity withered and died.
Still, she held her head high and proud, ignored the whispers and giggles that seemed to trail her in the corridors, and cut him from her life by dumping a box of every gift he had ever given her right on his doorstep, out in the rain. Petty? Utterly so.
But it was then she promised to herself that she would never be so naive again.
She was twenty-four, and her best friend of Celestia-knows-how many years was about to walk down her own aisle. If you’d have told Rainbow Dash ten years ago that she’d been the first one out of all of them to get hitched, she’d have most likely laughed in your face, then mocked you for good measure.
But here she was, a great deal older and (a little) maturer, looking positively radiant in a stunning, snow-coloured gown, that started off opaque at the bodice and then slowly cleared into a shimmering, translucent hem. Rarity had sewn small, cleverly embedded crystals that directed the constant refractions of spectrum-coloured light around the hooves.
She had pulled Dash aside moments before she was due to walk down the aisle, surveying her in a final check. Something had been off. Rarity couldn't quite put her hoof on it... and then, bingo.
Reaching back, she had taken off the pearlescent veil and undone the complicated updo that her friend’s rainbow mane had been twisted up in, letting the colourful curls fall gently behind her.
The embellishment and glam simply wasn’t Dash- who never hid behind anything, never disguised her feelings and beliefs or concealed her face.
No, Dash was wild and independent and spirited, and Rarity nodded in satisfaction at the curled waves that cascaded freely down her neck. They were a far more accurate representation, and contrasted the paleness of the gown beautifully.
Dash had smiled, said something along the lines of ‘let’s rock this shit’, and glided over to her father- despite Rarity’s protests of ‘no flying in the dress’. Bow Hothoof was nearly already a blubbering mess.
And although Rarity could sense the nervous energy radiating off her friend, there wasn’t a single glimmer of doubt, a single thought of uneasiness. She was completely and utterly sure of herself, of her love, of their ability to last a lifetime.
And Gods above, she had been nothing short of amazed by the way Soarin looked at Dash. She had seen them together before, sure, but she had always been exposed to the teasing, public aspect of their relationship. She had rarely seen how they were in private, which was to say, much more affectionate than they were around other ponies.
He had been staring at her as if she was the very first star to ever emerge out of the night sky, his own small miracle. As if the sun rose and set on her, as if a word from her could send the world crumbling down or rising up in triumph. As if she was at the very centre of everything he held precious.
As if she was the very breath he relied upon to live.
His awe at her seemed something much more private, much more intimate than she felt comfortable laying eyes upon.
From her place in the pew, she had been able to hear the ponies around her sniffling from the sheer intensity of the emotion. From the way tears fell from those green eyes of his, and how he made no move to stop them, or how Dash’s face flushed, and her lip trembled, in a way that Rarity had never seen before.
How she let the tears fall freely, and half-laughed, half-cried with a sort of forsaken joy that disregarded reputation or image or vulnerability. It was as if there was only the two of them in the massive hall.
And part of her, the selfish part, had wished that someone out there would one day love her as much as Soarin clearly loved Dash, and that she could perhaps one day give herself to someone as Dash abandoned herself to Soarin.
But now was not the time for wallowing in self-pity. Today was for celebration, for joy, for love, and she would devote herself whole-heartedly to it.
She was twenty-seven, and was beginning to notice how all of her friends had started to maintain serious relationships. How a few of them were already married, or engaged. How nobody spent Valentine’s Day cooped up in their studios alone, working all day, eating old mint heart-chocolates three days past their ‘use by’ date.
She was beginning to question why she couldn’t seem to find someone who fitted her as perfectly as Soarin fitted Dash, or Mac fitted Fluttershy. Wondering if there was something wrong with her, the way she presented herself, wondering why every stallion she had shown mild interest in had either been doubtful of her genuineness or too intimidated to approach her.
She had thought that maybe the debonair, high-class stallion who was well-mannered and classy and thoughtful was the one for her- their interests were so fundamentally similar that she thought they had to work.
She had lain down her heart yet again, a risk, she knew. She had just hoped, desperately hoped, wished, that he was worth it.
And she was so tired of exposing her heart to those who would smash it into a million pieces without giving a second thought. So goddamn tired of wondering if there was something wrong with her, if she was too intimidating or pushy or complicated.
Was it so selfish to wonder when it would be her turn?
She was thirty, and her heart had been breaking for a long time. She had known herself to be falling out of love for a while. A self-proclaimed guru in relationships, she knew when two ponies weren’t meant to be.
And the thing was, they didn't get on badly. He was always gentlemanly, courteous, thoughtful. In fact, she rather enjoyed spending time with him, in a soothing sort of way.
But the truth was, shallow as she felt it might be... he had never looked at her the way she imagined. The way someone completely and utterly dedicated to her would.
She never felt a deeper meaning behind those three little words which could change a pony’s life, and although she felt the sincerity behind them, they were said in an almost obligatory fashion, in a superficial manner… she knew they didn’t mean as much to him as they did to her.
And it hurt like Hell on Earth when she knew she needed to let go of him- but she couldn’t, because she had still been waiting for the impossible to happen. He was never going to love her, and she had come to terms with it in the most brutal way.
It had been at a party, just as before, that her heart had been broken again. His infidelity hurt her more than it ever should have.
It was always so hard to cut the final string.
“I love you! Darling, I do,” He had exclaimed, on her doorstep in the downpour, his normally pristine, coiffed blue mane drenched in rainwater.
“Where?” she had replied, and although she was standing inside, her face was none less wet. “Where?”
“What do you mean?” he had asked, blue eyes clouded with confusion. The golden spectacle that seemed to usually enlighten him had fallen off his muzzle.
“Where is this… this love?” she had spoken back at him, voice broken and quiet, tears flooding in an unswervable warpath down her cheeks. “Perhaps it was there three years ago, but now I can’t feel it, I can’t see it… you never look at me the way- the way I want you to-”
“Rarity-”
“I can hear it sometimes, but it doesn’t mean anything, words always came so easily for you-”
“Rarity, I love you-”
“But that’s the problem!” she had shouted, slamming her hoof down, “You don’t! You just- you don’t! And that’s not your fault, I just… I see the way you look at her.”
“Who?” His face had blanched, “Fleur? Rarity, nothing ever happened between us-”
“Don't you dare lie to my fucking face, Fancy, I know,” she had interrupted him, enraged in the face of a blatant lie, “but that’s not the point. The point is that you’re never going to look at me that way, as if I’m- as if I’m all you’ve ever wanted. I’m never going to be good enough, never going to enrapture you the way she does-”
“Rarity!” he had gasped, horrified, “You are beautiful and hardworking and talented and an incredible mare-”
“Easy words,” she had scoffed, “I’m insulted you think I’m that shallow.”
His eyes were angry now. “That’s not fair, Rarity-”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes!” he had insisted, slightly taken aback.
She had exhaled raggedly. “You’re not listening. Do you love me, really and truly?”
“What are you talking about? Rarity-”
“Am I the last thought that enters your head before you fall asleep? Am I the first thing you think about when you wake up? Could you give up everything you’ve ever known, everything you stand for, your morals, your family, your friends, everything you’ve worked so hard to get, for me? Would you sacrifice everything for me?”
Fancy Pants had been silent. That had been enough of an answer for her. And maybe it was a little harsh, to demand so much of him- to demand so much of anyone, but this was the one thing Rarity had wanted more than anything else in her life, ever since she was a little filly, and she would not lower her standards. Not for him, not for anyone.
“I’m sorry, Fancy, but we’re done.”
“Rarity, wait-” he protested, “is there truly nothing I can do to prevent this?”
“It’s over, Fancy. It never really began. But you had my entire heart, and that made it real. It was a shame I was always a second priority to you.”
“It was real, though, Rarity- please, I can love you- I do love you-”
Her smile was sad and bitter. “You cannot make yourself love me, Fancy Pants. Please, do us both a favour and leave me alone.”
And she slammed the door in his face.
She knew the exact moment when everything had changed.
She was thirty-five, and he was completely different from her. His accent was strong in a soft, southern twang, he cared not for courtesy or politeness or societal expectations. To be honest, she wasn’t sure why she had fallen so hard for him in the first place. They were polar opposites.
The Apple Fair was something she had been, rather unwillingly, dragged along to by Applejack, who now had a beautiful little colt and another on the way. Rarity had been sweet to mask her jealousy.
She had been sulking by the pie table, not wanting to go back to designing Pinkie’s wedding dress, kicking rocks as though to deliberately destroy her perfectly manicured hooves. He had bumped into her and spilled an entire tankard of cider all over her pristine white coat.
At first, she had been outraged. She had been already in a bad mood, and it was just her luck that some prat had been careless enough to absolutely ruin her day- and her coat. He probably didn’t even know what sodium hypochlorite was, let alone the amount of it she was going to have to use to get the yellowish stains out.
But he had apologised profusely, suavely, offering to run and get her a towel from the barn house, and there was something so sincere in his bright green eyes that she had accepted his offer without really knowing what she was doing.
Even though she had tried not to, she couldn’t help but notice the broadness of his shoulders, the carve of his jawline, his height and strength and long flaxen mane that he had let run loose over his shoulders, that she desperately wanted to run her hooves through. The arresting features of his face, the satirical twinkle in his eye...
She couldn't deny it. He was fucking hot.
And there had been something about him that was different from all the rest. He was able to make her laugh more than any other pony she had ever met, telling her stories from Appaloosa and Mountenegro and all the places she hadn’t been.
He showed her how the butterflies rested on the elderflowers right on the edge of the meadow, how to pick an apple of the tree by bucking it right on a particular piece of gnarled bark, how to tell North from West from South from East, just by looking at the position of the sun or the places the stars laid in the sky.
She found she could make him laugh as well, as the chuckles came easily, something she had never been able to do with Fancy. She told him about the wonders of the art in Canterlot, the busy highstreets and the neon lights, the smell of smoke and spice and the music and the technology and the skyscrapers that seemed to truly scrape the sky.
He fascinated her, teased her for her accent, imitating her as she did him, making her feel normal and appreciated and… happy. Not crazy, or fluttery, or nervous, but just happy.
Applejack had called out ‘Braeburn! Now don’t yah go stealin’ our Rarity’s heart, an not givin’ her nutin’ back, yah hear me? She better ain’t be like one o’ them fillies you’re havin’ round every other week!”
And he had winked at her and smirked back at his cousin, and said ‘Ah wouldn’t worry ‘bout’it if Ah was yuh, AJ. Ah sure ain’t in tarnation lettin’ this lady go any time soon.’
And although she should have felt threatened by the news that he was a player, there was something in the way he looked at her, the secret smiles and hidden glances, that made her feel that this one was going to be different.
When she had gotten home that evening, after he’d walked her all the way back home, three miles to her boutique, he had slipped his address into her hoof, and told her something that made her smile every time she thought about it.
‘Ah know Ah’ve only known you a mere hours, but Ah can’t help but feel t’at lettin’ you go would be the hugest mistake Ah’d ever make in mah life, Miss Rarity. So, uh, write tuh me or sumtin’, ‘kay? And sorry ‘gain ‘bout mah tomfoolery upsettin’ that pretty white coat of yours.’
That had made her feel warm inside, because really, beneath the rough, tough attitude and the cocky remarks and the dirt from the orchard, there had been a warmth to him, a gentle, honest soul who loved wholly with his heart and not his head.
He made her feel appreciated, and beautiful, and... wanted.
And sure, he may not have been her first love, nor her most dramatic love, but he was the love that made all other loves irrelevant.
Because finally, finally, he was the one who looked at her as if she was the most important thing in his life, as if she had fallen from the Heavens themselves, as if she was someone worth devoting himself to.
One of her fondest memories had been taking him as her date to a soireé, a petty little event hosted by Canterlot’s elitists. Having the reputation of a pioneering young designer, she had received the invitation, printed neatly on a crisp white card swirled with gold.
And instead of watching Fleur de Lis hang onto Fancy’s arm the entire night, she had amused herself by introducing Braeburn to sparkling water. He had winced and choked after taking a huge swallow, claiming that ‘this here beverage ain’t as strong as sum’ of the liquors Ah’ve drank before, but’it sure is sumtin.’
She had laughed, taking a huge gulp herself, caring not of the disparaging looks they were receiving from the snobbiest of Canterlot’s inhabitant. She had replied back, ‘you know, until I moved to Canterlot, I had no idea what sparkling water was. Whenever I ordered water at a restaurant, they would always say ‘sparkling or still water’. And I thought, by ‘still’ water, they meant it was water, and it now continues to be water-’
And he had stopped coughing, and looked at her, and they had both burst out laughing at exactly the same time, and then been asked discreetly to leave by the lurid hostess.
It was the little things really. The way he was so thoughtful, like how he left her random sticky notes around the house, with sweet as equally teasing messages on them.
Or how he was always willing to do what she wanted to do- whether it was complying to being dragged around the shops for hours upon end, or letting her use him as a male model for her latest brand design. (Her productivity and creativity levels had curiously sky-rocketed after kissing him for the first time. He tasted like brandy and honeydew and green apples.)
Or maybe it was the late-night chats they shared, sweet and dark and intimate, staring at the framed moon through the window.
Once, he told her, ‘Yah don’t need tuh be the sun, brightnin’ up everypony’s life all the time, sweetpea. Being the moon is good enough, lightin’ up their darkest hour.’
And she marvelled at the simple truth of the statement. She was pale and elegant and calm, like the moon. He was warm and bright and passionate, just like the sun.
The metaphor had fueled many a secret smile.
Or maybe it was the way he listened to her. The way he listened to her- not like the others, who had heard, but hadn’t listened. The way he made her laugh when he knew her tears were about to fall, or the way he thought she was funny, because nobody else had ever before.
Finally, she had found him. She hadn’t even realised what she had been searching for- not a perfect relationship, not an idyllic lover- but someone who loved her for her, and not what she represented.
Her soulmate, if you would. And it didn’t matter that he was in the rough, no, in fact, that made her love him even the more for it- because it didn’t matter about her status or her manners or her reputation, it didn’t matter whether she knew the latest high-class trends or had petty trophy assets worth a certain amount.
He saw her for who she truly was, and Celestia, she was grateful.
And when he'd gotten down on one knee and opened a box that contained perhaps not the most extravagant, nor the most expensive, but what had been surely the most beautiful ring she'd ever seen, she had said yes faster than she’d ever said anything in her entire life.
Simplicity and complexity need each other like fire needs water. Two of similar nature can get along, but it’s two opposites who are harmonised. Who are balanced. He was warmth and laugh and love, and she was cool and graceful and poised. Sun and moon. He had been the heartbreaker. She had been the heartbroken.
They both weakened around each other. They both fixed each other.
And it wasn't a massive, flamboyant ending, they didn't live in a huge palace or defeat any monsters- which actually, in a way, they had- but it was her own sort of personal fairytale. Her own happy ending, filled with a peaceful, contented bliss.
He was her diamond in the rough, and she wouldn’t have him any other way.
‘A glory kindles in these eyes,
Trembles to starlight… Thine, O mine!
No more be tears in moon or mist,
For thee, sweet sentimentalist.’
Author's Note
This was a short, sweet story idea I had, and it didn't take me very long to write. The poetry is credited to the incredible James Joyce. The poem 'I Hear An Army' is a rewrite of W.B. Yeat's 'He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace'. It explores the idea of being left alone in bed by a love, being abandoned, and wondering why your 'heart' has no 'wisdom' to stop you letting it be broken. I thought the equine reference was particularly appropriate :)
I hope you enjoyed it, I certainly did writing it.
