The Downfall of Rarity's Empire

by TheLostNarrator

Rating: teen
Tags: Rarity, Sweetie Belle, Applejack, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 2112

With her golden years before her, Rarity tries to cope with change and demand.

Rarity has been designing and making dresses for decades. It was what she was meant to do with her life, and she knew that from the moment she got her cutie mark. But time wears on us all and Rarity knew in her golden years that she would need some assistance to keep her creativity flowing... but was it worth the cost?

--

Full cast audiobook can be found here

Artwork by MindlessSketching

Published 2024-07-03 07:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2024-07-03 07:50:01 UTC

"We're getting too old for this, Rares..."

Tired, drooping eyelids slid past blue irises as a jolt brought Rarity back to her senses. She gasped as the shock of almost falling asleep startled her awake. Her panicked eyes glanced around the room. A sewing machine was before her, its whirring motors humming and buzzing audibly in the quiet, dim room. The sun had long set behind the curtained windows; moonlight shining in from underneath the heavy, hung-up cloth.

A soft sigh escaped her lips; it was as hushed as she could manage. Blue irises shifted up towards the clock nailed to the wall above what appeared to be a shrouded cork board. The cork was nowhere to be seen except for little patches of beige here and there. The rest was buried under pinned pieces of paper with scribbles and notes. Long forgotten ideas for a rainy day. Some were crumpled, torn, and weathered, as if the ideas were written in a rush… but as Rarity continued to stare at the cork board, she could feel the lump in her throat forming. This wasn’t the same lump that formed when she would try to swallow her pride and continue to work, nor when she would hear the screeches from the masses who complained about her work… her art.

No, this lump tasted of bitterness and hate. She took a shaky breath, trying to calm the flurry of thoughts that wanted to burst forth as she approached that board. A small thought crept into her mind as her horn lit up, illuminating the darkened work room. So many wasted and unused ideas would remain on this board. She even noticed dust beginning to gather on the corners of the parchments, displaying their age. She eyed the date at the corner of one.

5 years. It had been 5 years since she had sketched that idea. 5 years of being forgotten and tossed aside. 5 years since she felt the creativity flow from her mind and translate itself into visions and images of colorful fabric, interweaved with the finest stitching, all from her own hooves.

But now? Well, that wasn’t the case. Now, she created the pieces, and then she… dealt with the complicated details. She would take Rarity’s creations and make sure they were consumable for the masses. She could ensure every pony in Equestria would only wear the latest and greatest from Rarity’s signature couture. She would maintain the profits and the wealth.

“... Just create, Rarity. That’s all you have to do. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Rarity swallowed down the regret as she recalled that conversation, and how lighthearted and innocent it pretended to be. How everything seemed so much simpler then, compared to now. It sounded like a brilliant plan. Rarity was getting older, and being an artist at heart, she wanted to focus just on the creation of it: the process of fashionable art. She would handle all the formalities; the back end. She was younger after all.

Another sigh. The ticking of the clock seemed to echo in her ears as she turned away from the cork board and looked vacantly at the closed door on the other side of the room. The fluorescent light from underneath reached the edge of Rarity’s hooves as it bled across the carpet. She wondered how long it had been since she last left the room. Usually she brought her meals so she could focus, but considering the time and the pang growing in the pit of her stomach, Rarity decided to take a chance.

She turned back to the sewing machine. Though a piece of fabric hung loosely on it, the stitching the seams were neat and tidy; a quality of only a completed ensemble. She had completed the four outfits that were required of her that day. Surely she could just leave and quickly go downstairs and–

Hoofsteps. They resonated from beyond the door. Rarity felt her chest clench when she heard them. The sweat began to bead on her brow as she raced back to the sewing machine. Rarity’s horn glowed as fabric and needles lifted into the air and fitted themselves to a bare mannequin nearby. Cloth placed, pins inserted, and the outfit took shape. A simple red dress with white frills at the end that flared out. To her normal standards, it was too plain, too boring, but when did new and exciting fashion matter when everypony had to like it?

That tight feeling resurfaced as she tried shutting her eyes to calm the nerves. When did things get this bad? When did this become their reality: this empty, transactional state of being? When did Sw–

The door swung open with a loud bang, flooding the room with light. Rarity didn’t dare glance at the door as she continued to pin the fabric into place. The older unicorn knew to keep her head down and to stay focused at the task at hoof. She could hear the hoofsteps getting louder, then abruptly paused. It was too long of a pause for her liking so she finally peeked over her shoulder.

“... Do you like it?” Rarity’s wizened, raspier voice broke the silence. She could feel the tension in the room, as it sent a shiver up her spine.

When no response came, she shut her eyes again, praying for just a simple response. When it still didn’t come, a sigh behind her made her shoulders slump in defeat. Turning around completely, the light from the hallway shined in her eyes, blinding her. She winced as her eyes refocused, falling upon a white unicorn mare. She stood before her looking down, pale hairs of pinks and purples styled and primly in place as taut skin and fur kept lines and wrinkles hidden away. It was then that Rarity realized why there had been silence.

A little small glowing box. That damn, accursed thing. Rarity pressed her lips in frustration as she glared at the distracting, wretched contraption in the pony’s hooves.

“Sweetie?” Rarity questioned, trying hard to bury the annoyance boiling in the back of her throat.

The younger, white unicorn held a single hoof up, as if to end a conversation that hadn’t had the chance to start. “That looks like shit.” She muttered, never taking her eyes off the small box. “I told you, we need clothes that everypony will want.”

Sweetie’s tone was so far detached from her own words; they sounded bored, vacant of feeling and warmth. Her focus was on the device in her hoof. It continued to glow with the mare’s green orbs glued. It flashed lights, casting deep shadows upon the younger mare’s face, but it was in that moment that Rarity caught a glimpse of the wrinkled corners of her sister’s eyes. She wondered how much had really changed as she stared at her sister’s true age finally shining back at her.

Rarity waited again, hoping her sister would continue, but only the grating commotion of the small box filled the silence.

Another sigh. “That… is something everypony will like.” Rarity insisted.

“How do you know that?” Finally, the mare looked up, pulled away from her trance. “Have you asked anypony?” The words stung sharp as Rarity felt the nagging lump again.

“... Well, no, because somepony has me on a very strict schedule.” Rarity spat back. “Maybe I could ask if somepony would let me–”

“Look, you asked for my help, and in order to make sure you’re a part of Fashion Week, you have to get these outfits done.” The glow dimmed on the device, causing the hallway light to cast harsh shadows across the room.

“I did exactly what you asked!” Rarity screamed, pain and frustration rising to the surface, but the relief was short lived. The tone in her voice… She knew that was too much. First came the wince and then she stepped back. Her magic stopped; the pins, needles, and fabric falling to the floor behind her. She locked eyes with her sister, the fear beginning to set in. Fashion Week was an important and crucial affair, everypony knew that, but as Rarity shook her head, she felt the waves of anxiety crashing into her. “I’m sorry!” She blurted out, realizing her mistake.

“... Do you want your medicine?” It was a simple question. One would not assume how tainted those words really were as they left the younger mare’s lips. The words were cold and sterile.

White fur stood on end as the question lingered in the air between them. This was the cruel devastating truth that continued to stare back at Rarity. She couldn’t function outside these walls, not without assistance. The only way she could continue her art was with her help. She’d known this for so long now, especially after the pain started. That unending, miserable ache that crept into her bones and would remain for days on end. How was she supposed to weave the visions in her mind if that crippling pain was there? Magic could only go so far…

“... And you’re sure this will help?”

“Yes. Just one. Here. That’s all I’ll give you for now…”

That relentless lump again. This was her prison. If she wanted her creations to become a reality, this had to be her fate. Maybe she should have listened to that old, weathered, orange mare back when this all started. When it was still just a simple problem and not a complex, interlocking, torture chamber of her creation.

“... We’re getting too old for this, Rares. Let’s let the ‘youngins’ take over while we enjoy our golden years. I’m sure Sweetie can look over the books and businesses… ”

Rarity bit her cheek, recalling her naive response that day. She felt like a fool now. Glistening blue oceans glared back at the younger unicorn, but quickly faded behind wrinkles that were veiled in the shadows.

“Yes, I want my medicine,” was all Rarity spoke as she turned around and resumed her work. Horn glowing, needles floated and resumed their weaving into sheer fabric, while she tried to push down the rush of emotions whirling around her mind.

“Good.” Sweetie Belle replied. She could sense the shift in the room as she examined the other pieces that were pinned together on the mannequins. Each one a single color with accents of white and black on the edges. She didn’t understand why tastes were becoming more and more simpler amongst ponies today, but the stakes kept her from questioning it. “I brought you dinner.” She added curtly, levitating a covered tray and resting it on the table nearby, pushing and shoving fabric in the process.

“Thank you.” Rarity mumbled, not turning to look at her sister. “You can take them all once I finish this piece.” The stale tone signaled to Sweetie that Rarity was done with the conversation.

Sweetie sighed, irritated as she rolled her eyes. The stress of the situation grated on her nerves. She had agreed to this arrangement 5 years ago and within that time, Rarity had become nothing but a recluse. Her sister got to stay in this room day in and day out with food delivered and ponies coming and going as she pleased, yet this is how she acted. This was the thanks and gratitude Sweetie was given.

If it wasn’t for her, Rarity would be out on the streets and the business would have–

The small black mirrored box hummed to life in her hoof, brightening the room. Sweetie’s attention turned back to it. More plans. More charity events. More press tours. More fashion shows. It was important that she attend and facilitate each one, being the face of Rarity’s fashion empire.

She glanced up at her sister, who continued to work fabric in place on the still figure. A delicate operation of sorts that only one so skilled could do. “The raw talent,” some would say, but Sweetie Belle didn’t care. All the talent in the world didn’t matter if there was no financial stability behind it.

The younger mare turned on her hooves and exited the room. The door clicked softly, shutting and sealing her sister in the room. Another sigh. She wondered how much longer she would need to endure this. Shaking her head, she peered at the device one more time, her eyes falling on the title of the email: “The Late Rarity Fashion line…”

She swallowed hard, wondering if she should get a lock for her sister’s door.

Author's Note

This was a vent piece. Sometimes the best way to process stuff is to write.