Old Flames and New Sparks

by GentlemanJ

First published 6th of September, 2014

When a piece of the marshal's colorful past comes back to town, Rarity starts to wonder whether some things just weren't meant to be.

The twentieth story in The Journey of Graves

The drama should have been over. Rarity and Graves should have been well on their way to a happy ever after. However, when a piece of the marshal's colorful past comes rolling into town, sparks start to fly as Rarity wonders whether it was all a fairy tale after all.

Chapter 1

This is a short story in The Journey of Graves.

The series begins with the first story: When the Man Comes Around.

IMPORTANT: If you haven't read the series, please head back to the beginning and check it out. While each story stands on its own, the character and relationship developments will build on each other as the series progresses.

And so, the saga continues...

Spell gun slung over one shoulder and broad, flat-brimmed hat pulled low over glittering silver eyes, Graves strode his easy way back into the sunny streets he knew so well.

The marshal had been abroad for a week on official Equestrian business, pacifying a tussle between werewolves and villagers that had taken longer than he’d hoped, but less than expected. As always, it really just boiled down to a border dispute between expanding boundaries and traditional lands that took a good bit of negotiating – and by negotiating, Graves meant the copious use of hard stares and harder fists. Eventually, both sides were appropriately placated and peace was brokered between the villagers and their new, lycan neighbors.

It was thus, with a job well done, that the silver-eyed soldier bade farewell to those mist-chilled woods and returned to good old Ponyville.

Honestly, he’d missed it. He’d missed the happy people, the good weather, and of course, Rarity and the girls. Rarity mostly. That’s why in an act as uncommon as a poor boy singing the fandango, Graves felt a small, but genuine smile crease the corners of his lips as he fingered the neatly wrapped parcel tucked away in his pocket.

In an increasingly common practice of late, Graves had brought back yet another trinket from the lands of his travels. Today’s gift was a broach of intricately knotted silver, crafted metal that the villagers said would ward off bad luck and ill fortune so long as it was worn. Not really sure what bad luck or ill fortune Rarity would need to ward off, but that wasn’t the point. Graves did it because when Rarity smiled that beautiful smile of hers, her sapphire eyes always lit up that in ways that outshone any jewel he could have brought.

In fact, just thinking about those sparkling eyes quickened his pace as Graves ascended the stairs to his porch and made for the door. It’d just be a quick stop. He’d drop off his spell gun, take a quick shower to freshen, and head over to the boutique before dinner. He could give her the broach over a nice pizza at the Sweetwater Café and then they could–

Hand over the handle of the door, grey eyes hardened as the marshal froze.

Peaceful though Ponyville may have been, Graves was a soldier, and no amount of cheery smiles or friendly hellos could scour the stripes from that tiger. Even in the safety of Equestria’s heartland, the marshal still held fast to the tips and tricks that had saved his life countless times before. Check your shoes for corpsemaker spiders. Slice your fruit to reveal mini explosives. And of course, always mark safe house entrances for signs of intrusions.

Magic wards were a given, but those could be unwoven. That’s why whenever Graves left, he always inserted a single hair into the space between the door and frame, just beside the door knob where an extended hand would most likely hide it from view. The hair was still in place, which would normally indicate that nobody had entered while he’d been away. Normally, though, people don’t add a third check by jimmying door handles to only fully return to place with a deliberate pull upwards.

Someone like Rarity, who often let herself in with a spare key, would leave all signals tripped as expected. A devious thief might hit the spells and miss the rest. But when someone was careful enough to reset both spells and the literal hair trigger and only missed the most subtle clue of a knob's faint rattle in the barest of loosened states?

That spelled trouble.

Slowly, almost casually, Graves opened the door to his house and walked in as if nothing were the matter. His mind, however, was racing at two miles a minute while gunmetal grey eyes scanned the surroundings for possible threats. A few practiced scans revealed no trap glyphs or trip wires, and a fully opened door eliminated the most obvious blind spot. This allowed his first few glances to clear the two-story living room and accompanying kitchen. Nothing amiss.

That just left upstairs.

Slinging his spell gun onto a peg on the wall – it wouldn’t do him much good in the tight quarters above – Graves took measured steps up towards the balcony of the second floor for a closer look. The spare rooms, the one which would have housed the four other marshals, were completely undisturbed. Only the door to his room had been altered and in the same way as the front door. The hair was placed as it was and the spells untriggered, but the door knob was ever so slightly loose.

Whoever had broken in had gone into his private quarters. Whether they’d come out was a whole other question.

Muscles primed and nerves twitching like electrified eels, Graves pushed open the door and–

–leaped back as something yanked it hard from the other side whilst a glinting flash of silver marked a blade’s slashing path for where his throat had been an instant before.

Even before the swing finished, the knife altered trajectory mid flight to thrust out in pursuit of Graves. He pivoted on his heel to let the blade pass before his face, but it twisted about in agile fingers for a reverse grip thrust headed straight for his eyes. However, these few moments were all the marshal needed.

As he blocked the assailant’s arm with a quick strike and twisted to seize the wrist, his other hand came up with his own sturdy field knife in a vicious, disemboweling thrust.

His target blocked the upwards strike with a counter blow of its own and spun opposite leg around to kick Graves in the short ribs. Graves, in turn, dropped his knife to catch the leg, pivoted once more, and used the momentum to bodily toss the assailant off the balcony and onto the floor below. And yet, instead of breaking its neck, the marshal’s attacker contorted in midair to hit the ground in a flawless roll and came up smoothly into a nimble, ready crouch.

Reaching down to pick up his knife, gunmetal greys locked onto their target as Graves warily descended the stairs.

Whoever or whatever the attacker was, it was well trained. Even after taking that fall, it hardly seemed worse for wear as it waited, weight evenly balanced on the balls of its feet in the perfect balance of tension and ease. So a professional then, even more apparent given the nature of its equipment. The straight foot of double-edged steel was as quality a piece of steel as Graves ever seen, and the sturdy black leather suit could probably deflect all but the most intent of slashes and thrusts. In fact, the suit was practically a full suit of armor as it left only a thin slit between matching mask and hood to reveal a pair of blazing green eyes.

For whatever reason, it seemed that somebody really wanted Graves six feet under and had gone to very great length to ensure it damn well happened.

In the brief, vulnerable moment between steps, the assailant dashed forward once more and slashed at the marshal’s descending leg. Fortunately, Graves anticipated the attack and had leaped over the railing to get at his attacker’s blindside. However, the attacker seemed to have anticipated that in turn and launched a thrusting back kick that might probably have taken his head clean off.

Kick led to slash, slash to riposte, riposte to strike, and so on. Back and forth, the two went, a whirlwind of slashing blades and lashing blows, each movement a deathblow in itself, yet also the part of a greater battle. Every attack sought to gain ground, a stronger footing, a better angle, anything that could help secure victory. Never more than a hair’s breadth from a viciously bloody end, gambles were made on life and limb as the two fought desperately to tip the precarious balance from the razor’s edge.

And then he struck. In the briefest of moments when their blades met, Graves channeled and released the magic he’d carefully scraped together throughout their deadly waltz. It wasn’t much – he could hardly spare the concentration to gather more than a trickle of mana – but it was enough to shock his opponent and numb the weapon hand for just a moment. That moment was all it took.

In that blink-long space of surprise and pain, a sharp blow freed the knife, a swift kick unbalanced the body, and Graves sent the assailant crashing down to the unforgiving floorboards below. It was only then, when the marshal had his knee pressed into his assailant’s gut and held his silver blade pressed to the throat, that he finally spoke.

“Alright,” Graves growled, his heart pounding as steely eyes flashed with deadly intent. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t gut you like a trout here and now.”

Though the marshal’s attacker was the one facing the prospect of an impromptu tracheostomy, emerald eyes held not the faintest fleck of fear at all. On the contrary, they sparkled with something that almost seemed… amused.

“You need reason?” the assailant asked, its voice ringing with laughter. “Fine, I give you reason. You will not take my life because I am me, Syerivolt.”

Breath hitched. Grey eyes widened. Silver blade clattered to the floor as Graves reached out to tear off the mask and reveal a smiling face.

“No,” Graves whispered. “It can’t be…”

Rarity was thoroughly pleased.

Graves was back. Late of course – she’d long since learned that a “few days” the marshal’s books might very well end up considerably longer – but back nonetheless and this was most pleasing indeed.

But really, why did he have to travel so often? Oh sure, there were the usual explanations. Duty. A calling. The need to prevent death and destruction the likes of which mere mortals could scarcely dare to comprehend. Rarity knew them all was proud like a mother hen of Graves for doing what he did, but that didn’t make his absence any less pleasant.

Though she rarely voiced it aloud – it wouldn’t do to inflate a man’s ego too much, now would it? – Rarity absolutely adored having Graves around. That’s why the violet-haired beauty was thoroughly convinced that instead of being out on the road so much, the raven-haired soldier would do much better by staying home more often and engaging in all wonderful activities young couples were so oft to do. Just think about it. Instead of guns and guts, wouldn’t a day strolling through Canterlot be so much better? They could go shopping, visit some of those delightful art museums, and maybe even catch one of the capitol’s truly stunning operas. Wouldn’t that be so much fun?

… Okay, maybe Graves wouldn’t be quite so keen on that sort of day, but that’s when Rarity reminded him of all the benefits just being together brought. For that, she always dressed the part, like with today’s turquoise sundress and little bowler hat, both hand embroidered with tiny lavender flowers to bring out the violet of her tresses. Yes, Graves may not have been much of a society man, but he was an absolute sucker for her.

Anywho, none of that was really important as trips to Canterlot weren’t anywhere in the near future. Right now, Rarity was much more concerned with simply seeing the marshal once more, and that merry little prospect put an extra pep in her step as she sashayed her way up the front porch steps.

As she came to the door and took the handle, however, a strange sound came through the sturdy oak panels to meet her ears. By the familiar rumbles of his gravelly baritones, Rarity could tell the source was Graves. What confused her so was that the voice, so familiar that she could pick it out from a sea of thousands, was accompanied by one she’d never heard before.

“Graves?” Rarity began as she slowly opened the door. “Darling, is that–”

“–and then I say, ‘Of course I shot him. Who wouldn’t?’”

And Graves laughed. It wasn’t loud, nor was it grand, but it was that sort of deep, pit of the stomach chuckling that shakes the entire body as whatever the marshal heard sounded out as pure, comedic gold. Graves was amused, and to a degree Rarity had only seen enough times to number on her fingers. With room to spare.

As the laughter finally died down, Graves turned glittering silver eyes, still sparkling with amusement, towards the sound of the open door.

“Oh, hey Rarity,” he smiled, looking about as bright and happy as an unlit jack-o-lantern, which would be the equivalent of ear-to-ear grins on anyone else. “Sorry I didn’t come over yet. Planned to, but just found out that I got a visitor.”

Sapphire eyes quickly flicked over to the lone stranger at the table. Clad completely in black leather, her luxurious mane of bright gold hair and blazing green eyes lit up a face that was still stunningly beautiful despite the long, faint scar crossing one cheek.

“Very pleased to meet you,” the pretty dressmaker smiled despite her confusion as she approached for a handshake. “I’m Rarity, proprietress of Carousel Boutique on the north side of town. And you are?”

The woman looked Rarity over, a quick glance, but precise and exacting as the most razor sharp of scalpels. Then, with a pleasant smile and a surprisingly firm grip, one that might even have surpassed Applejack's, the woman replied in an exotic, smoldering voice,

“Araneida Roamanov, Director of Security for the Stalliongrad Governing Body, and” she finished with a smiled to Graves, “this one’s former lover.”

Chapter 2

“His what?!”

Young and fit as she was, Rarity feared she may passed then and there from a coronary event of epic proportions. Graves, on the other hand, paused for a few moments of chin-tapping thought.

“You mean ‘comrade’?”

“Right, that is word,” Araneida laughed aloud with an easy toss of her golden mane. “Pardon, Miss Rarity. My way with your language is not so good.”

“Oh, is that right?” Rarity smiled weakly as she brought the hand down from her thundering chest. “Well, that is… good to know.”

“We fought together during the Ratsputin Coup a few years back,” Graves explained as he pulled out a chair for the newly arrived lady. “Equestria sent a handful of agents to help the Homeland Liberation Front take back the country.”

“Not easy, that time,” Araneida remarked. “For many months, we fought, from the slopes of the Cartpathian Mountains to the streets of Stalliongrad itself. But good – comrades, yes? – make even hard times better.”

“It does at that,” Graves nodded firmly. “Neida here was one of the best spooks I’ve ever seen, not to mention knife fighters. She can fillet a fly in midair, and training with her taught me more than the Academy.”

“Syeri, you are too kind,” she laughed.

“ ‘Syeri’…?”

“ ‘Course, it’d have been nice if Neida showed some restraint,” the marshal remarked as he rounded back on his veteran compatriot. “Spent more time extracting you from self-made messes than anything else.”

“ ‘Neida’…?”

“Bah, you enjoyed it,” the blonde woman laughed as she gave the marshal a friendly punch. “And besides, I do for good reason. Remember Yakraine?”

“How could I forget?” Graves grimaced. “Blew up a camp distillery and brought a full Crimson battalion right to our doorstep.”

“Led by Barbas the Butcher himself,” Araneida nodded. “ебля ублюдок.”

“Я знаю, правильно? How long did it take to clear out? Three days?”

“Four. After, we found the Butcher’s personal supply, remember?”

“Not really. Don’t remember much of anything that night.”

“None do. But it worked, eh? We cut big part of Crimson force, open way to Stalliongrad, and pave way to final victory in best way possible. All in all, a good time, no?”

“Eh, maybe not good, but… not bad. Definitely not bad.”

Though Rarity smiled and reacted as her social instincts deemed appropriate, it was all she could do not to cry out in abject bewilderment. This… Araneida, whoever she was, clearly shared a history with the marshal, but the contents of such a history made as much sense as Twilight’s late night extrapolations on quantum foam and string theory.

Of course, Rarity also realized that it was certainly a rare opportunity for Graves to be able to commiserate in a positive fashion on past exploits – truly, she couldn’t remember a time when he’d spoken so animatedly about the past – which is why the young lady made no attempts to interrupt, redirect, or in any ways alter the flow of conversation. Letting the marshal have a good time was important, even if it did make her feel like the third wheel on a well-balanced bike.

“Anyway, you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” Graves said as he rounded the talk back to the present and – hopefully – something that Rarity could join in on. “I thought Stalliongrad had you chained to the desk.”

“They do,” Araneida laughed once more. “But I decide that two years of pushing paper is long time without vacation. Thus, I sneak out, hijack airship, and go on little holiday.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Graves murmured with a grand roll of the eyes. “But why Ponyville?”

“To visit you, of course,” Araneida smiled. “I ask Princess Celestia of best student’s location and come to see if he grows rusty. I am pleased to see his blade still sharp.”

“Still active, still fighting,” the marshal answered, though not without the faintest hint of smugness in the words. “You should know that since your ambush failed.”

“Yes, about that,” the blonde intoned, emerald eyes lighting up and black leather softly rustling as she leaned in. “How you know I be in your chambers?”

“Trade secret,” Graves smirked. “ ‘Course, I could trade if you teach me that–”

Before the pair could launch into another one of their inscrutable tirades, the town clock tower chimed the hour.

“Shoot, it’s getting late,” Graves remarked as he case silver eyes out the window and at the fiery horizon. “Probably want to get settled in, huh?”

“That would be grateful, yes.”

“Luggage?”

“Small travel pack at train station. Move light.”

“Like always,” Graves smiled just before he stood. “I’ll go grab it. You pick out any room you like.”

“You mean she’ll be staying here?” Rarity blinked. Graves blinked as well, somewhat confused by the question.

“Course. Got plenty of spares, don’t I?”

“Very true,” Rarity nodded. “It’s just… men and women usually accommodate separately, do they not?”

Gunmetal grey eyes glazed over for a moment as the marshal considered a decidedly unexpected question. Once he had, however, the laughter returned.

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” Graves answered with an amused grin. “Compared to campaigns, different rooms might well be different houses.”

“Is that right?” Rarity murmured. Graves seemed to think it no issue and Miss Roamanov likewise showed no reaction. That seemed to mark the pretty seamstress as the only one perturbed by the situation, which is why she kept her peace.

“Anyways,” Graves continued, apparently satisfied that the issue had been settled, “I’ll go and get your stuff. Make yourselves at home.” And with that, the marshal nodded to each of the ladies, made for the door, and took off.

That just left Rarity and Miss Roamanov together for the very first time.

Normally, it wouldn’t have taken her so long – getting a good read on your compatriots was critical for the socialite, after all – but given the whirlwind of introductions and backstory, Rarity had yet to get a really good look at Araneida. Thus, in the moments of silence following the marshal’s departure, she cast sapphire eyes over the newcomer for a thorough appraisal.

As her first impression had indicated, Araneida Roamanov, a woman of an age with the marshal if not perhaps a few years older, was truly beautiful. Long golden hair framed a stunning face that could have most men fumbling over words like athletes over a hand egg. The long, straight-lined scar marring one cheek should have been a detractor, but when coupled with those blazing green eyes, that imperfection seemed to somehow accentuate everything else with a soft, but intense heat.

And that wasn’t even talking about her figure. Though Rarity had never considered a military career, the thought passed over as she took in the other woman’s, to put it quite bluntly, spectacular form. If Araneida’s face could have addled men, then the curves outlined by black leather could have felled them at twenty paces. Really, what did they eat in the army to grow up like that?

“Is this gulag?”

“Er… come again?”

“Inquisition,” Araneida clarified. “You stare at me as if I am put to question?”

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry about that,” Rarity started with a frightful shock. “It’s just that I was so busy admiring your, um… that is…”

It was only when she caught the glitter of amusement in Araneida’s grin that she realized no offense had been taken. It didn’t do anything for the embarrassed flush in her own cheeks, yet it was something at least.

“Do not worry,” the Stalliongrad agent easily laughed as she lazily stretched out. “It is compliment I catch your eye so. Still good for field work, if that.”

“Field work?”

“Right, you are not soldat,” the blonde woman nodded. “As Graves say, I am spy. Or was. Anyway, best way of get intel is make sure they look more than listen. This way, they say what should not be said yet never know.

“Of course,” she continued with a sly smile, “I need not explain this to lady of high society, yes?”

“What, me?” Rarity remarked both from pleasure and surprise. “No, I wouldn’t consider myself anything of the sort.”

“No?” Araneida remarked as emerald eyes blazed a bit brighter. “You sit with poise like czarina, you speak as if ready to sing, and you wear clothes unlike others in town. Hand-stitched flowers, yes? And of quality suited for shining city. No, you may be in small village now, but you are of society.”

Rarity sat there for a spell as she attempted to work enough blood from her stunned brained to her hanging jaw to get it working again.

“You certainly have a keen eye,” she finally remarked once her faculties were in ready order once more.

“I am spy,” Araneida shrugged, the gesture tinged with shades of amusement and pride. “Is my job to see what others do not. Is also how I see that you are in love with Graves.”

“I… ah… wha?!”

The violet-haired beauty was, to put it bluntly, caught blindsided like a deer by a careening carriage in the dark of a stormy night from such an unexpected question.

“Come now, that is easy one,” Araneida smiled. “The way you look at him, sit turned towards, even blind myshi could see is true.”

“Uh, well I suppose that… why, yes, yes I am,” Rarity finally managed after a good bit of stammering and blushing. “My goodness, pardon me. I’m usually not so easily flustered.”

“Don’t worry, it is cute,” the former agent smiled warmly. “It is like a little girl with her first crush. Very adorable.”

There was nothing wrong with those words. By every right in both selection and tone, those words were warm and friendly and complimentary in every way. Yet for some reason, Rarity found that those kind, innocuous words just didn’t sit quite right. Of course, considering she was so off-kilter from the entire interaction, she didn’t put much stock into the feeling.

“I suppose I don’t come across as the most… grounded of women, do I?” Rarity admitted with a fresh bloom of crimson in her cheeks. “I must admit, it is frightfully embarrassing at times. I mean, we’ve already been together for some months now, and I still feel like giggling every time I see him. Can you believe it?”

It was at this moment that Araneida, so confident and composed since the start, first looked surprised.

“You two are… together?” she blinked.

“But of course,” Rarity answered. “Wasn’t it obvious?”

“Ah, you must forgive me,” Araneida laughed, all easy smiles once more. “As you see, I am not so familiar with your ways.”

“But surely you noticed,” Rarity remarked once more, albeit this time with just a touch of something else in her voice. “After all, you are very clear about observing the details and you obviously know the marshal very well. It must have been obvious.”

“I do know him well,” Araneida nodded. “After all, true knowing comes from putting life on line together, as we do so often before.”

Once more, that sense of something being not quite right. Rarity quickly quashed it down as the blonde woman continued.

“But you must understand,” she continued. “Syeri is not like most. He is wolf, with strong claw and iron fang. To admire him is one thing. To presume him your pet another.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t presume so much as that,” Rarity laughed, though not quite as easily as her companion had. “Graves holds a very special place in my heart and I believe I do the same in turn. It’s hardly ownership when the bond stems from mutual affection, no?”

“This is true,” Araneida nodded. “Syeri much softer now. He smile more in hour today than whole campaign I stood beside him.”

Once may have been chance. Twice a coincidence. But when the same naggling feeling of unease came three times running, Rarity felt it best to finally give it voice.

“Miss Roamanov,” she began, cautiously lest the growing unrest in her stomach discolor her words, “surely you’re not suggesting that I have misinterpret the marshal’s general improvement of mood for special favor, do you?”

“Now it is I who presume too much,” Araneida chuckled as she raised open hands in easy concession. “Forgive me, my words are coarse. I merely say that Syeri is good man who is softer than before. I say nothing else of what may between you two.”

Rarity quietly pursed her lips, not responding to the statement as thought took precedent over words. Her brain was churning, though to be perfectly honest, she really wasn’t quite sure why.

Graves and she had a special connection, no two ways about that. After the arduous and slightly ridiculous courtship process that had resulted in her meeting the man behind the myth and legend, it really would be quite silly to think they didn’t. Anyway, it was through that connection that the two of them had gotten together, and since then, she’d never had reason to doubt the marshal’s affections. He was as absolutely steadfast in his intentions now as when he’d stated them so clearly towards her those many months ago.

Which, come to think of it… was an awful lot like how he treated his work, wasn’t it?

Just like Araneida said, Graves was a good man. More loyal than the most faithful guard hounds, Graves gave everything he had to what he believed was right. This included his both work and loved ones, but of course, relationships were very different. People didn’t spend time because they had to, they did it because they wanted to, as Graves had stated so beautifully before.

Of course, nobody could deny that her efforts to understand the fears stemming from a past traumatic enough to make the Marquis de Sade weep were certainly admirable. Graves was a good man, as Araneida had said, and he would certainly be grateful for it. But it’s not like gratitude for something he’d never had before, yet desperately needed, would create a deep-seated obligation compelling him to respond towards her affections with the same steadfast loyalty that he gave to his service solely because of his steadfast nature. To presume that his desire to be in a relationship was in actuality a mere reinventing of his noble character and desire to do what was right would be utterly preposterous.

… Right?

Whether for good or for ill, it was at that precise moment that Graves decided to return with bag in hand.

“Hey there,” he called out as the door closed behind him. “You ladies having fun?”

“Much,” Araneida nodded. “Miss Rarity is very pleasant company.”

“That so?” he remarked. “Didn’t think you two’d get along so well.”

“Because we are so different?” the blonde woman laughed. “Is true, but is fun to be with different kinds. For a while, no?”

“Guess so,” Graves shrugged. “Anyway, got your stuff here. After you get settled, I figured we’d go out to eat, maybe get some drinks?”

“Food and spirits, like all good camps,” Araneida smiled. “In this case, I get changed and meet you here. скоро вернется.” Standing from her seat at the table, she seized up the bag and turned back to Rarity once more.

“Is good meeting you,” she remarked with hand extended forward. “I hope to be talking with you again soon.”

Rarity returned the smile and handshake, but not with as much enthusiasm as such a friendly first greeting warranted. Araneida didn’t seem to mind, though, as with a last smile towards Graves, she hitched up her bag and headed upstairs.

“Man, still can’t believe she’s here,” Graves murmured in gravelly awe at her departure. “Seems like just yesterday we were fighting the Crimson Brigade.”

“And yet you never mentioned her before,” Rarity intoned delicately. Coolly.

“Never had a reason,” Graves shrugged. “Mission talk never really struck your fancy.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Which reminds me…” With a small, but obvious smile, Graves reached into his pocket and fished out the small parcel and handed it to Rarity.

“Souvenir from this trip," he rumbled. "You like it?”

Rarity unwrapped the oil paper wrapping and allowed sapphire eyes to light on the broach of intricately knotted silver. She blinked, looking somewhat surprised, and said nothing.

Needless to say, this was not the normal reaction that Graves was expecting, which is why he, as an expert on things not normal, felt his smile fly off faster than one of his trademark lightning bolts.

“You don’t like it.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Rarity started as a grateful smile quickly came to her face. “I’m sorry, it’s just that my mind seems to be running in seven different directions... It really is lovely, dear. Thank you. Thank you so very much.”

Though it may have been as subtle to most as the change in hue between slate and light charcoal, the slight curve that returned to the marshal’s lips marked just how pleased he really was. For Rarity, this reaction elicited two responses. First, some guilty thoughts at ever having doubted the marshal's affections, a sentiment which she neatly bundled away. The second, amusement at such a drastic change for so small a matter, she readily shared in ringing chimes of delighted laughter.

“Honestly Graves, you go off to battle with werebears and what not, and you’re more concerned about whether I like your present?”

“Werebeasts are easy,” Graves insisted with a neat little tug on his hat. “Making sure you’re happy, not so much.”

“Well, you’ve done an admirable job this time, dear. Thank you,” Rarity insisted as she stood straighter to plant a kiss on his lips. Only after she was both literally and metaphorically grounded once more did Graves continue.

“Anyways,” he grunted. “Neida seemed to like you. Wanna join us for dinner?”

“No no, you two have fun,” Rarity laughed. “I can tell when old war buddies need time to catch up. You go on and have your fun.”

“Then we’ll do something tomorrow,” the marshal insisted, a surprising remark considering his usual equipoise on social events. “She’s a guest, but I can’t just go ignoring you, can I?”

“You’d better not,” Rarity replied with the mock severity he knew so well. “But we’ll worry about that tomorrow. Au revoir.” And with a final fond smile to the marshal, Rarity turned around and headed out the door.

Once outside, Rarity gave herself a little shake and set out at a brisk pace back towards her boutique. It wasn’t quite as fast as her arrival, but it was a good bit quicker than her mood mere minutes ago would have allowed.

Really, she was being quite ridiculous. It was clear that Graves loved her as much as she loved him, and certainly in the same way. Just because they didn’t flaunt their romance with egregious displays of public affection didn’t mean it was any less true or meaningful than those who did.

And so what if he used the turns of phrase, “can’t just ignore you,” as if paying attention to her were some sort of obligation? Why, it was a perfectly normal saying that a man who was genuinely in love would use for his special lady. The fact that the statement could also stem from the general goodwill of a man viewing relationships as obligations was certainly no proof that that was how he actually felt. Neither was the fact that he’d invited her along only because his precious guest would not take offense, thereby creating no conflict in what could be seen as equally important duties.

No, Rarity clearly had nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing at all.

Chapter 3

Unknown to the bipedals of Ponyville, Opalescence the cat was well-regarded in the pet and animal community as an expert on human culture, specifically with regards to the aspects of appearance and garments. Of course, she didn’t really understand the need for clothes – why anybody would bother covering up the lovely perfection that was her silky soft fur was beyond comprehension – a luxurious lifetime with Rarity had taught her to note the subtle differences in what the food distributors wore.

For example, on that particular morning, Opal noticed that as her lady servant prepared for her morning run, Rarity opted for spandex instead of her typical lycra outfit. While lycra breathed better and brought back less odor to offend Opal’s delicate sensibilities, tight spandex was the fabric of choice when Rarity wanted something that molded more properly to the various anatomical areas humans seemed so preoccupied with.

The adornments continued in more similar fashions. Small diamond studs went into ears usually left unadorned. Touches of waterproof mascara and a subtle sheen of gloss adorned lips usually left au natural. Clearly, despite this being part of the lady servant’s usual routine, Rarity was taking an extra amount of care to make she was as aesthetically appealing as possible.

Opal noted the changes in passing, but really didn’t care. After all, she herself was busy grooming to meet that exceptionally fetching tomcat who’d taken up residence with the pony-obsessed girl and her candy-named roommate. Thus, it was with a typically ignored goodbye that the lady servant left the house as Opal prepared for combat.

As observant as her cat had been, Rarity was decidedly less so. In all honesty, she’d hardly been aware of the various touch ups she’d made before setting out that morning. Her mind had been far too preoccupied.

She was probably being paranoid. While not quite as bad as Twilight – she hoped – Rarity knew she could be quite prone to fits of foul tempers and jealous fugues. That’s why it was so important for her to nip those feelings in the bud before they could bloom into their full, green, blossoms.

Rarity was in no way, shape or form, doubting the veracity of the marshal’s affections. The fact that Araneida Roamanov had not seen anything between them despite her observational prowess was no proof whatsoever. After all, she was clearly out of touch with the marshal and simply couldn’t appreciate the nature of their relationship.

Rarity told herself that. In fact, she’d told herself that all evening, through dinner, into her nightly rituals, and well after she’d lain down for the night. However, just like her little sister’s silly game of “don’t think about the purple hippo,” the very act of trying to ignore those uncommonly silly thoughts meant that she could not. The result was a less restful night’s beauty sleep than usual, which in turn led to the morning’s rather preoccupied Rarity. In fact, she was so well preoccupied, that the violet-haired beauty actually missed the turn off to the marshal’s practice grove and had to backtrack a good hundred paces.

As she slowed to a light jog under the verdant tree boughs, Rarity took a long, measured breath to compose herself and steady her thoughts. Miss Roamanov knew about Graves from before. That much was fact. But it didn’t mean she knew everything about him. If anyone knew about Graves and how he felt, it would be her and her alone and that was an absolute fact.

Of course, a little touching up to draw out some stronger reactions for proof never hurt, right? That’s why, why steeled with the resolve of a gladiator entering the arena, Rarity put a smile on her face and advanced till she came within earshot of the grove, then proceeded to feel resolve crumble like rotten fabric.

Panting. Grunting. Not from one, but two voices, one she knew well and another she’d only recently met.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” a gravelly baritone called out with, fast and clip as if short on breath. “Move those hips of yours.”

“I try, marshal,” the voice of an equally heaving woman replied. “But your weight makes difficulties, no?”

“Never was a problem before,” Graves rejoined amidst a rustle of grass and leaves. “Then again, maybe you’ve gotten soft.”

“Soft? In you think that, then I show you everything and–”

Bursting into the clearing with a barely strangled cry of alarm, sapphire eyes wide with horror spotted Graves on top of Araneida as their sweating, heaving bodies sat tangled together on the grassy floor.

“Oh, hey Rarity,” Graves called out. “How was your run?”

The pretty seamstress did not immediately respond, as the sight of the marshal’s well-muscled arms and torso glistening with sweat did nothing for her already addled brain. He had his pants on. Araneida too, with a trim tank top to boot. That was important, somehow, but right then she couldn’t quite say why.

“Er… fine,” she blinked, giving her head a slight shake to clear the cobwebs. “Might I ask what is going on?”

“Neida here,” Graves grunted as he threw a hard elbow downwards, “wanted to practice some ground work. Figured I’d oblige.”

Groundwork? What the hay was… ooooooohhhhhh. Fighting practice. Of course. That would explain why Graves was straddling Miss Roamanov’s stomach and raining down a veritable flurry of blows she fought hard to fend off. It also explained the sweating, panting, and other sound effects that had given Rarity such an unnecessary fright. I mean, really, what was she expecting? What else could she possibly have a man and woman with strong, well-trained bodies be doing out in the middle of a secluded wood?

“Ah, I see,” Rarity smiled, a bit hesitant as she watched Araneida return the favor with a sharp jab to the marshal’s chin. “How… nice?”

“Not really,” Graves frowned as he caught blonde woman’s arm and twisted. “You should’ve been up and out five minutes ago.”

“How could I?” the lady spy frowned as she freed the precariously convoluted limb and gave her hips a hard buck and hooked a blow towards the marshal’s temple. “You weigh down like ox.”

“Did you just call me fat?” Graves intoned, eyebrow arched as he kept his balance, settled in, and dropped an elbow towards his training partner. “I told you, twist as you buck. Up and down ain’t gonna toss off anyone.”

“Especially not now,” Araneida sighed as she fell wearily back to the ground. “Two hours with Syerivolk is hard, even for me.”

Two hours?

“Alright,” Graves shrugged as he stood up and offered her a helping hand. “Not bad today. Not the best, but not bad.”

With a knowing smile, Araneida reach out and took that hand as she pulled herself to her feet. Attired as she was, Rarity could clearly see the toned lines of her figure and the numerous scars that marred her form. There were nowhere near as many as Graves had – she doubted anything short of a patchwork quilt could match the marshal’s stitching – but there were more than enough to highlight distinct similarities between the two.

“We’d better move,” Graves said as he released the hand and turned around. “Wanna get rinsed off before heading out to Sweet Apple Acres.”

This brought Rarity back to reality.

“Oh, is Applejack hosting an event?” the pretty seamstress smiled as she stood with as much calm as she could muster. Given the tightness around her smile, it couldn’t have been as much as she’d hoped.

“Not really.” Picking up a pair of towels, Graves tossed one to his practice partner who caught it with hardly a glance. “She wanted help putting up a barn on the south pasture. Neida’s never tried it, so I’m gonna bring her along.”

Well that was all well and good. Showing friends around was a very nice gesture indeed. But what Rarity wanted to know was why hadn’t Graves asked her along as well? Not that she’d had ever particularly wanted to go to a barn raisings or even expressed anything beyond reticence and hesitation at the notion – simply too much sweat and dirt and sawdust for her tastes – it wouldn’t have hurt to invite her, right?

“You wish to join?” Araneida offered with an easy smile as she worked the towel over her full, glistening form. “Graves here says you are not so fan of hard work, but always room for more, yes?”

Not a fan of hard work? That sounded a lot like an accusations of… no, she probably didn’t mean anything by it. After all, Miss Roamanov clearly had some difficulty with words, as she’d already referred to Graves as her… lover… so aptly demonstrated. Nothing to get in a tizzy over, right?

“Don’t worry about it,” Graves answered, a small smile coming to his face as he spoke before Rarity could respond. “We’ll finish up by mid-afternoon. You can join us at Sugarcube Corners when all the sweating’s done with.”

What, so Graves didn’t think she could handle manual labor now too, was that it? He thought she was just a squishy little marshmallow despite the fact that she’d – no, no, Graves was obviously being considerate. He probably thought that it’d be easier to preempt the question than force her to make a polite refuse, which would normally be true. It was the kind of thing that a kind, considerate man would do in just such a circumstance. For anyone.

“You’re absolutely right, dear,” Rarity smiled, her composure surprisingly smooth as she tamped down on the words she really wanted to say. “I’ll be in the shop till you all finish, so just stop on by whenever you’re ready.”

“Great,” Graves smiled as he shrugged his shirt back on. “Come on Neida, the Apples are early risers. Might’ve started already.”

“Lead on,” Miss Roamanov smiled as she turned to the pretty dressmaker once more. “I look forward to spending time with you, Miss Rarity.”

“Likewise,” came Rarity’s smooth response, despite the fact that the words did not match her intentions. “Till this afternoon, then.”

“Till then.”

With that, the two combatants took off with long, loping strides that Rarity could never have hoped to keep up with. However, with even as much space as those ground-eating steps took, they didn’t move fast enough to keep Rarity from hearing Araneida’s final words.

“I like Rarity. Very cute.”

Cute, huh? Really, she wasn’t that much older, so where did she get off calling her a– no, no, no! No overreacting! No tantrums! Rarity knew she was a proper lady, and a proper lady did not go about getting miffed at the smallest slights, especially not from someone who was trying to pay her an honest compliment.

As Rarity resumed her jog back home, it was with the same, balanced demeanor that a socialite of her standing could produce at the drop of a velvet-lined hat. However, demeanor was one thing. The prickly cacophony of emotions that lay just under that calm façade were decidedly more difficult to handle.

A hot shower, which usually was just the ticket for a foul mood and or frazzled nerves, didn’t do much for Rarity that morning. That’s why in brief moment of indulgence, the pretty seamstress treated herself to one of her more decadent breakfast options known to man: waffles.

Unless Sweetie Belle was staying over, Rarity almost never had waffles. Just the thought of all those extra calories from butter and sugar sent shudders right to her taut, little tummy. But right then, a good bit of delicious comfort was what she really, and the as the last, syrup-drenched morsel was neatly tucked away, Rarity was finally able to calm herself down.

So Graves was spending most of the day with Araneida. Big deal. That’s what old friends did when they saw each other, especially after long absences, right? What did it matter that the friend he happened to be spending time with happened to be in unusually close proximity with a very attractive woman?

Really, how was it that Araneida could look so good despite being a soldier? Roughing in the woods didn’t do a girl any favors, yet her golden ringlets look salon-conditioned and her skin had that subtle, healthy glow that only came from dedicated moisturizing, scars and all. And what was up with her figure? First that fitting black leather, which should have come across as tacky in the extreme but didn’t, and then that combat trouser, tank top combo? Rarity had never once felt insecure about her own figure, but with displays like that, she couldn’t help but marvel at the difference a few years of maturing really made.

But of course, it didn’t matter, right? Graves was just going about treating a friend to a good time that just happened to be something that she couldn’t be a part of. If that was the case, then she’d just let them have their fun while she stayed at home and got some work done.

Thus, the morning passed as Rarity puttered away in her workshop, sketching, snipping, sewing, and occasionally stitching. It was a productive time and once she got in the swing of things, very relaxing as well. One might even have thought that Rarity had forgotten all about her concerns over the marshal and his friend. The fact that all her designs would have looked particularly unflattering on full-figured women with color schemes of green and gold was certainly happy coincidence.

But then the morning passed. And then a quick lunch passed. And a good portion of the early afternoon as well. Still no Graves.

That was odd. Or maybe it wasn’t. Rarity wasn’t sure how long a barn raising usually took, but considering Graves had suggested a meeting at Sugarcube Corners, it couldn’t have been much past tea time, right? Unless they were going long or something else had come up? Or maybe he and Araneida had taken a detour after finishing? Or–

Before the crazy train could gather enough steam to leave the station, a chime at the door brought Rarity from her thoughts with an unusually large sigh of relief.

“Well it’s about time,” she huffed, now only slightly miffed as she went to answer the door. “Really, he couldn’t give me a time to expect him? And here I’ve been, sitting around on my lonesome, waiting for him to call. I mean, just because he has company over doesn’t mean he can go about ignoring me in such a fashion, can he?”

Satisfied that her train of thought was impeccable, Rarity settled the curls of her violet tresses, reached for the door, and smiled as she laid eyes on–

“Hiya, Rarity!”

“… Derpy?” the young lady blinked. “Why, what brings you here?” Of all the people she’d expected, the affable girl with straw-colored hair was not high on the list. Not that Derpy didn’t have fine potential of course, but when a lady’s perfectly content with hooded sweatshirts and jeans, she typically doesn’t have much use for a dress shop.

“Um… Graves!” Derpy beamed. Rarity blinked.

“You’re here because of Graves?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked me to.”

“He asked you to what?”

“To give you something.”

“Okay?”

“…”

“…”

Rarity blinked yet again as the affable, wall-eyed girl smiled along. And then it clicked.

“Oh! Right!” Derpy gasped as she quickly reached into her sweatshirt pocket and extracted a small fold of paper. Handing it to Rarity, the wall-eyed girl gave a final jaunty wave, whipped her straw-hued hair around, and took off for the skies. She crashed into a lamp post first, but then it was clear blue skies for the happy girl.

In the meantime, Rarity unfolded the note and glanced over the contents. Glanced only, because there wasn’t much to see.

“Rarity,

Graves has received assignment in Everfree Forest so cannot come back. Do not worry. I take good care of him.

Araneida”

…

Oh no.

Oh hay no.

It.

Was.

On.

Chapter 4

Sometimes, hearing the truth can be a wonderful thing. Finding out that you passed that big test, your crush actually likes you back, or that the government is giving everyone a free pony because why not can single-handedly make your day, if not your entire week. Unfortunately, the truth Rarity currently grappled with was much less of the make you smile type and much more of the contracting venereal disease variety.

Araneida Roamanov was trying to steal her man.

Or maybe she wasn’t. As Rarity found herself doing with increasing frequency of late, she once more had to ask whether she reading too much into it. Perhaps her time among the Equestrian elite had made her overly sensitive to the art of word craft. If that were the case, then she may have been well on her way to making the only mistake worse than missing a hidden attack, which was fighting one that didn’t exist.

Maybe it was all in her head. Her recent bouts with worry and neurotic concerns certainly didn’t lend credibility to her cause and Luna knows she’d made the same mistake before. Maybe she should relax. Maybe she should…

… No. Something was definitely going on. She could feel it in her gut, a sort of hot, trembling feeling like the one time she’d made the tragic mistake of wearing parachute pants. Miss Roamanov had called her to a child. Used the term lover instead of comrade. “Not noticed” the intimacy that Rarity and Graves shared. Any one of these on its own could have been a misunderstanding, but receiving that letter and seeing that final line, “I take good care of him,” was the final stitch in the hem.

If there was one thing Rarity knew besides fashion, it was snubbing, and far too often, she’d seen the noble art of crafting the calculated barb. Even the even the most innocent of expressions could conceal a dagger underneath and it was high time to conclude that Miss Roamanov’s words were far from innocent. It wasn’t a pleasant realization, falling somewhere just between hangnails and having to redo an entire show’s worth of designs because someone decided to steal your signature look, but at least it was a clean one. Roamanov needed to be stopped. Rarity would stop her. A simple, no frills situation where winning was the only rule of the game. Of course, that raised a still more difficult question.

How exactly was Rarity to win?

Had this been dealings with a minor noble of a lesser Canterlot house, then Rarity would have unleashed a vicious vortex of razor wit to more thoroughly flay an offending ego than even Opal could with her least favored toys. Politely of course. The problem was, she didn’t have that option here because Miss Roamanov was – and she was certainly no longer keen to use the word – a “friend.”

Whatever Rarity’s personal feelings, Graves clearly liked her. Not only did the two enjoy the same sorts of rough and tumble, occasionally violent, and often borderline abusive activities, they had history as well, and not just any old history. No, this was the sort of heavy backstory that formed the esprit de corp Rarity had started reading so much about. As much as Rarity hated to admit it, the two of them had a connection that meant whatever actions she took would certainly have an impact on Graves as well.

Rarity didn’t want to hurt him. Celestia knows he’d gone through enough trauma to fill seven ER’s already, and any additional drama, especially drama around one of the few comrades he had, would cause him grief as surely as unintended outfit matching at a dinner party led to gastronomical distress. Rarity had to confront the issue without it becoming a confrontation, all the while keeping in mind that time was of the essence as well. Trusted as a comrade of arms, Graves would never even suspect Araneida until her grasp held him too tight for escape.

And so, she got to work.

For the rest of the lonely evening, Rarity emptied mug after mug of strong tea as she sat at her workbench and wrestled with that nasty little dilemma. The piles of crumpled papers that quickly collected on the shop floor were filled not with discarded designs, but with outlines of scenarios. With the same meticulous planning she used for all of her fashionable works, Rarity worked through dozens of plans that struggled to keep the balance between keeping Graves safe and keeping Graves period.

It was hard, harder than trying to reconcile rhinestones and leopard print in the same outfit, but Rarity kept at it. As the hour grew late and the candle stub burned low, Rarity struggled onwards, even when her head grew foggy and started to drift to other questions. For example, why was Miss Roamanov the one who wrote the letter? Why couldn’t Graves have penned it himself, or even simply come to visit as he always did? Was it possible that perhaps, just maybe, he–

No. That was one train of thought even she could not indulge. Besides, she didn’t have the time, not with Miss Roamanov still on the loose. Rarity still needed a plan. But it was growing quite late already, and she was tired. After all, a night without good rest plus a day of worry will do that to you. She should take a break, relax her brain and let the creativity come. Perhaps if she rested her eyes for a bit. Just a minute or two…

The ringing doorbell jolted Rarity awake.

“Huh? Wha…?”

Though it took a moment, recollection quickly returned to the weary dressmaker. Still seated at her desk with quill in hand and candle burned out into a waxy puddle, it seemed that her little break had lasted right into the following morning.

Eyes widening with a start, Rarity leaped to her feet and dashed towards the mirror. Oh dear, this simply would not do. Ink stains on her cheeks, hair in a right, mess, and the remnants of two nights in a row without proper rest making a bold appearance in the bags forming beneath her eyes. It was not a state she wished to receive any sort of visitor in, but there it was, the ringing doorbell.

“Ah… coming!” Rarity called as she did what she could to tidy up. The effects were far from perfect, but a quick combing, a hasty facial wash, and just a touch of cover-up for her eyes would suffice for most anybody in Ponyville. Thus, far from satisfied but at least not mortified, Rarity scampered to the door, took a quick breath to steady rattled nerves, and opened the door with a welcoming smile–

–to lay eyes on the absolute last person she wanted to see.

“… Miss Roamanov.”

If there was ever a time that Rarity felt inadequate, it was then. The Stalliongrad agent was the definition picture perfect composure, with blonde hair was tied up in a neat to compliment that naval cut jacket ensemble she wore somehow towed that fine line mixing professional and alluring. Even her face looked fresh and rested, despite the fact she and Grave had… had… What had they been doing? Rarity recalled it was something significant, but between the late night and sudden morning, she couldn’t quite recall. Oh drat, what was it that she was forgetting?

“Ah, Miss Rarity? Hallo?”

With a start, the Ponyville dressmaker realized her guest had been speaking.

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry,” she flushed. “It seems my mind suddenly flew away from me. You were saying?” Rude as she’d been, Rarity felt a flush of embarrassment color her cheeks, but the foreign liaison merely smiled, still all good grace and friendly warmth.

“Is nothing. I am just of wondering if you are busy now?”

“Um, no, not particularly,” Rarity remarked, herself still somewhat dazed from the long night and short wake up. “Why, did you need something?”

“Not need, so much as want,” Araneida replied. “We have not chance to talk yesterday, so I wonder if this is good time?”

“Yesterday...? Oh! Right. Well, um, in that case, please come in.”

With a grateful nod, Araneida climbed the final step up and entered the boutique. At that moment, Rarity couldn’t help but note that the only reason they’d been eye to eye moments ago was because Araneida had occupied a lower step. The pretty dressmaker had always counted herself rather tall for a lady, but the woman she faced might have been just a few inches shy of the marshal himself. How did one grow so tall yet still have such perfect proportions?

“I’m terribly sorry about the mess,” Rarity said as she closed the door and turned the closed sign over. “I wasn’t expecting company quite so soon.” This was true, but the response was more mechanical than anything. In the rush of the morning, it seemed that she still quite hadn’t had a chance to really get her bearings.

“Is fault of mine,” Araneida winced apologetically. “I see you have been of hard working. I mean not to interrupt.”

“No, no, think nothing of it,” Rarity smiled. “You just make yourself at home and I’ll put the kettle on.”

Some might have found this odd. A few conscious thoughts ago, Rarity had been completely intent on dismantling Miss Roamanov’s wily machinations with extreme prejudice. Yet here she was, coat neatly hung up on the boutique wall – revealing a very nice and form-fitting turtleneck underneath – and comfortably seated at the dining room table while Rarity prepared tea to welcome her in. For Rarity, it was perfectly sensible. After all, having another woman trying to steal your man was still no reason to be rude.

“Do you take anything with your tea?” Rarity asked as she came back with tray laden with china and dainty cakes. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Nothing, thank you.” With a grateful nod, Araneida picked up her cup and took a long sip, sighing in contentment as she savored the fragrance of tea.

“This is very good,” she remarked as the cup returned to its saucer with a delicate clink. “White Darjeeling?”

“Why, yes,” Rarity blinked in surprise. “How did you know?”

“An encounter on visit to Packistan last year. Once is enough to remember something so good.”

“Packistan? Did they happen to be wearing the traditional gharara?”

“Yes, all in red and gold. Very lovely.”

“Ooh, how marvelous! I wish I could have seen it!”

“Perhaps one day you can visit too. See rest of world.”

“One day, perhaps.”

For a moment, no more words were exchanged as the two ladies were content to sit and drink their tea. But only for a moment.

“Miss Rarity, I will not beat around bush,” Araneida sighed as she lowered her cup once more. “I think you know why I am here.”

Rarity nodded.

“Graves.”

“You love him?” Araneida asked.

“Yes.”

“Very much?”

“More than words can say.”

Araneida nodded.

“This is good.”

“… Hah?”

“If love Graves as much as said, then you will do good thing and leave him be, yes?”

“Wha- what are you talking about?” Rarity sputtered as eyes went wide in disbelief. “You think I’ll just stand aside and let you have him?”

Now it was Araneida’s turn to blink.

“What am I about? What are you about?”

“As if you didn’t know!” Rarity snapped. “Ever since the first moment I’ve met you, you’ve been trying to steal Graves away from me!”

It was hard to say what went wider, Araneida’s eyes or her mouth as it hung open in gaping amazement. It was much easier, however, to say that Rarity’s eyes went the widest as Araneida started laughing. And not just a little chuckle, oh no. This was a decorum be hanged, go ahead and call an ambulance because my sides are going to need medical attention after I’m done sort of laughing. Rarity was not amused.

“And just what, pray tell, is so funny?” Rarity demanded as blooms of color rose in her cheeks. Subtle reactions and snide comments, she could deal with, but this sort of abrasive act was simply unheard of. Unheard of and aggravating as well.

“о- о боже мой, Miss Rarity. You really are cutest child,” Araneida wheezed through teary eyes and hands wrapped clutching her stomach. “It is good to see such innocence.”

“Please just answer the question,” Rarity snapped as fatigue helped to fray nerves even faster than ususal. “And stop calling me a child!”

“But how can I not?” Araneida answered. The laughter had finally subsided, but the smile of amused endearment still remained, the look one would give to an exceptionally adorable child’s tantrum. “You are such child, you cannot even see problem as plain as nose on face.”

“And just what sort of problem,” Rarity sniffed, “do I not see?”

A slender, but strong finger rose up to stab directly towards the young seamstress.

“You,” Araneida answered, the same, amused smile still in place as she spoke. “You are biggest problem for Graves.”

Now it was Rarity’s turn to smile.

“Miss Roamanov,” she began, the woman’s words and gestures helping to reset her equilibrium, “if you are trying to guilt me into relinquishing the marshal, you will have a tough row to plow, as the saying goes.”

“Will I, now?”

“Yes you will,” Rarity smiled. “As you yourself said, Graves is much softer now than when you last knew him. Who do you think is responsible for such a remarkable change?”

“I say he is softer,” Araneida easily nodded as a strange glint came into her eye. “I also know you to be responsible. And now,” she continued as the smile she wore suddenly grew hard and hunting, “I ask you. When ever did I say this was good?”

“… Hah?”

Of all the scenarios Rarity had planned for, a conversation like was not among them. I mean, what sort of question was that? Of course softening up was good, wasn’t it?

“Why is soft good?” Araneida pressed, her words hard and sharp as the knife still on her belt. “You make Graves soft. How is this good thing?”

There were plenty of reasons why such a change was very good indeed, obvious ones as plain as the nose on her face. Now if Rarity could only remember what they were.

“W-why… it makes him much more likeable,” Rarity retorted, albeit not as strongly as she would have liked. The answer had not come readily in face of such an unexpected offense, but at least it had. Now to press on. “By smoothing out his rough edges, people can see he’s a kind, honest man. This helps him make friends, settle down. Lead a normal life.”

“And this is good for him?”

“Why, of course,” Rarity started. “What sort of question is that?”

Once more, Araneida’s smile changed. What had started out glowing with amusement and transitioned to heated intensity suddenly melted into an expression of pure, unadulterated pity.

“Silly, little girl,” she tutted softly. “You spend all this time with him, a full year almost, and still you not understand him at all.”

“Wh- of course I understand him!” Rarity cried out in a potent mix of surprise and offense. “I know him better than anyone else!”

“Do you now?” Araneida remarked as her smile slowly morphed into a secretive smirk. “If so, then why do you hurt him so?”

Hurt him? Hurt him? Rarity had been wearing herself ragged trying to avoid that! Who on earth was this… this brazen hussy to even accuse her of such a thing? Scenarios be hanged and tact be damned. Now it was personal.

“I most certainly do not hurt him!” Rarity snapped, eyes blazing as her rage flared to life. “Graves came to me an injured man, and it was I that helped him recover! How dare you say that I am trying to hurt him?”

“Because you,” Araneida snapped right back with eyes of searing green, “work to destroy everything he is!”

“Why, of all the nerve!” Rarity gasped. “If not for me, Graves would never have a chance for a normal life!”

“And when did he say he want one, hm?” Araneida challenged. “When ever did Graves ask for this help?”

“I… ah… what?”

An unexpected curve. True, Rarity was responsible for all the things she’d said, but… had Graves ever asked her? Now that she thought about it, it seemed like she had been the one who’d always gone after him. But that was preposterous. He’d been very grateful for her interventions, hadn’t he? He was happy with what they had. Right?

“Incredible,” Araneida gaped. “You still sit there thinking you do him favors with your meddling. You really not know him at all?”

“Well if I know so little, then please enlighten me. What is Graves?” Rarity retorted. This wasn’t good. She was being too defensive. But if she wanted to respond, she needed time to process. To think. Blast, why was it so hard to focus? No matter. She needed time, so force Araneida to talk. Force her to–

“Graves” Araneida smiled, a look of pure predatory intent once more, “is soldier, man who has war in blood and steel on back. Is why we know him as Syerivolk, for wolf is one who fights to live. And lives to fight.”

“Th-That may very well be true,” Rarity conceded as chords in those words resonated within her own head, however much she wished they didn’t. “But that’s not all he is. There’s more to Graves than just… fighting.”

“Is there?” Araneida pressed. “In that case, you tell me this. If Graves is called to battlefield, what could stop him from going?”

Stop him? Might as well throw a stone in the air and tell it to not come down. Nothing could prevent Graves from going to a fight he needed. Rarity knew this and wanted to retort, but–

“So you concede that fight is first in his life,” Araneida nodded, satisfied with the blow just struck. “And yet you insist that making him weak is good for him.”

“I… I never said that–”

“You make him weak,” the woman insisted with eyes harder than the blade belted to her side. “Syeri once was not able to be touched. His fangs were sharper and claws stronger than any who could fight him. But now? Now, he has eyes like puppy, eager to lick hand held out to him.”

“B-but puppies are… nice?” Rarity answered lamely, inwardly wincing as she recognize it as a terrible response, yet still the only one she could think of. “People like puppies. People like Graves. Isn’t that good?”

“Good liking does nothing on battlefield,” Araneida frowned, the heat of her contempt practically blistering Rarity’s skin. “In war, only strong survive. The more you busy Graves with playing house, the weaker he is. If his worries make him too tired to fend off knife or spell, is over. Done. A wolf needs be strong, yet you work to dull his fangs.”

“No I don’t,” Rarity replied, instantly hating how weak she sounded. There had to be some sort of reply she could give, but her mind felt as if it were mired in tar, a thick, sticky mess of worry and doubt and silent, looming dread. “I… I don’t make him… weak. I just… I give him a place to belong. Somewhere he can just be… happy.”

“Do you?” Araneida asked. “Do you really?”

“… No. Not now.”

“Graves is wolf and run free,” Araneida frowned. “Yet you take his freedom. You leash him to your side with seduction of kisses and pretty dresses. You put collar on him and force him to dance before your rich svin’ya. How can he be happy as simpering pup?”

“Stop it, stop it! Rarity, don’t listen to this!” The voice in her head spoke, but it was through a haze as a loud buzz seemed to fill the young woman's ears.

“You claim to know him,” Araneida continued, heat that bordered on anger lacing every word. “Is sick joke, of yours, yes? How can you claim know one when you never even see life he lives?”

“ Come on, Rarity, you need to respond. Say something! You have to–”

“When exploding mortar cut leg clean open, is Graves who help me through mountain pass. When Graves has arm savaged by Crimson hounds, I tend wound and find herbs to stop infection. And when blizzard trap us in icy cave, we lay bare in each others’ arms to share warmth of our bodies."

The buzz grew to a deafening roar. Rarity tried to rally her senses and draw on the rapier wit she'd used so often before. But disoriented as she way, the young woman may as well have been trying to draw water with a sieve. At this moment, all she could think about were Araneida's words and the one thought she wished desperately to ignore.

“I have seen his life,” Araneida pressed. Implacable. Merciless. “I know truth of who Graves is. And this is how I know that you. Are. Poison.”

And there it was.

From the very beginning, Rarity had been afraid, but it wasn’t because of Araneida’s advances. In the brief time she’d been with Graves, the number of women who’d attempted to catch his eye could have rivaled the sequins on a Sapphire Shores original. Another woman doing the same would have been no different and would have been no cause for alarm. But this time, the woman in question had forced Rarity to consider just how different she was from the marshal she loved.

Graves was a soldier. She was a designer. Graves fought monsters. She made dresses. Graves was more comfortable wrapped up in his heavy coat by a campfire than sitting at a high society tea. She would rather shave her head than do the opposite. At least then she could try on some wigs, right?

These weren’t big problems, or at least, they hadn’t been. Regardless of how different they’d been, Rarity had always been able to rely on the simple fact that she’d been there for Graves when he’d needed it. She’d helped him learn to care for others again and overcome the fear of loss he’d struggled with for so many years.

But now? Now Graves was cured, or as cured as anyone like him could be. Freed from the shackles of his past, the marshal was free to live and love whomever he chose. Rarity had always believed he would choose her. She’d believed that her wits and charm, her beauty and secret knowledge of the marshal’s heart would keep him by her side.

Then Araneida had arrived, a woman who had everything she had and more. Rarity thought herself beautiful? Araneida was as well. She thought herself delightful company? Araneida could make the marshal laugh with sickening ease. She thought she knew the marshal? Araneida had literally been in the trenches with him and struggled through horrors that forged bonds closer than blood.

In everything Rarity had, Araneida had as well. What Araneida didn’t have, though, was the difference. She was so much like Graves. They loved the same things, had the same views. Whereas Rarity would always force him to choose between himself and her, Araneida would not. Araneida could run beside Graves with an effortless ease Rarity would never be able to match, give him the freedom to be who he was with no strings attached.

And it was in that knowledge, that fateful clarity, that Rarity had found the one question she had feared asking above all others.

Would Graves be happier with someone else?

Rarity said nothing. At this moment, all ability to speak had been thoroughly stricken from her mind. Emerald eyes saw all of this and understood.

“Consider my words, little girl,” Araneida sighed as she stood to her full, imposing height. “If you love Graves as you claim, then do right thing. Leave him be.”

And with those parting words, the blonde woman grabbed her coat and walked out the door.

Chapter 5

The sun had already set by the time Graves made his way back to Ponyville, his leather coat and hat liberally soiled with a mix of dirt, grime, and the various bodily fluids of demonic creatures best left to the imagination.

A pack of hell hounds had crossed the Snowspire Mountains and entered into the Everfree Forest, leaving a trail of char and death in their wake. Why they were there, he was uncertain, but he wasn’t there to ask questions anyways. That was for the big wigs on high. So after sending Araneida back the day before, Graves began the arduous process of hunting the creatures down.

Finding them was easy – all you had to do was follow the scorch marks and smell of burning wood and madness – but not being found in turn was much more difficult. If a hell hound caught your scent, it could turn on you faster than a brush fire in a bad wind. It could also decide that fighting be hanged and blink away in a gout of flames, only to appear from nowhere a mile or more off. No, hell hounds were best taken by surprise, and for beasts with such keen senses, that would take time.

Through the night and through the day, Graves had hunted, taking one out at a time as best he could. But whenever they discovered him, the beasts would always, always howl and charge. Flames that usually blazed like fresh embers now streaked with black and stinking with the sharp, acrid scent of insanity as fangs snapped to crush throats and snuff out life. Those fights were ferocious, and surprisingly so, but when fire and lightning, it was glinting silver and flashing steel that eventually walked away. So finally, with the unnatural threat properly extinguished, Graves followed the setting sun on his way back to Ponyville and a hopefully not too incontinent Rarity.

By his own admission, Graves was about as sharp as a boulder when it came to most social cues, but even he’d gotten somewhat better thanks to Rarity’s intensive training. For example, he could now tell that while she would certainly tolerate delays in spending quality time together, it was most definitely an act of patience. She could endure it to be sure, but in the same way that one didn’t voluntarily chase after drakes with a wooden spoon, one didn’t force Rarity to wait any longer than necessary.

So, given that he’d yet to really spend any time with her since his return, and since he’d had to bail on the tea with Neida like they’d planned, it was high time to make up for his delays, and the sooner the better. That’s why, despite his particularly pungent state, Graves made the executive decision to not head home and shower off as usual, but instead made straight for Rarity’s. The sun was low, but with any luck, perhaps she hadn’t had dinner yet. Maybe she’d be up to scheduling a bite with Neida? He really hoped so. It wasn’t often he got visits from people like the Stalliongrad agent, which is why he wanted to make the most of their time together. In a way, he really needed it.

Reslinging his spell gun slung over one stained shoulder, Graves brushed off what muck he could, trotted up the stairs leading to the boutique’s pristine, white door and gave it a few, sharp knocks.

“… H’lo?”

“Uh, Rarity?” Graves called out, his gravelly, baritone rumble slightly uncertain at having to speak through the door. That was new. “It’s me.”

“… Juss a sec.”

After a strangely long delay, the door opened and gunmetal grey eyes alighted on a very odd sight.

“Rarity?” Graves blinked. “You alright?”

Rarity blinked as well, but slowly, as if her body was running on three quarters speed. Looking up with slightly glassy eyes, the lady with somewhat tousled, violet locks caught sight of the marshal and smiled.

“Graaaaaavessss,” she beamed, a dopey sort of beam that came over her pink-tinted face. “Jusssssss the man I wanted to see. Come in!”

To the marshal’s eternal surprise, Rarity reached out, took hold of his soiled sleeve with nary a hint of horror nor hesitation, and dragged him into her pristine shop, gory grit and all. Pushing him into an open chair, Rarity cheerfully sauntered to the one already set opposite and sat down. Or rather, fell with a seat conveniently under her.

“Rarity, what’s going on?” Graves asked with eyebrows arched in suspicion. “Are you alright?”

“Alright?” she blinked, still slow and somewhat befuddled. “Why, I’ve never felt better. I feel absholutey… wonderful.”

Gunmetal grey eyes slowly widened as the pieces finally began falling into place. Slowed reaction, glassy eyes, and finally slurred words? No way. She couldn’t be. But looking about the shop, understanding fell as Graves finally laid eyes on a nearby table.

“Oh, Rarity,” Graves groaned as he stood and approached the crime scene. “How many of these did you have?”

“Juss… juss a few,” she shrugged as a little giggle escaped her stained lips. “It seemed like a good idea, and you know what? It most… shertainly wash.”

Picking up one of the colorful wrappers, Graves was inclined to disagree.

Chocolates. Specifically, chocolates from Chef Chantilly’s personal, confectionery wonderland. Made of the finest milk, sugar, and cacao, each of these special bon bons was also infused slash filled slash downright loaded chock full of an entire ounce of hundred and twenty proof raspberry brandy. Considering the probably two dozen wrappers strewn out across the table and the fact that Rarity had the tolerance of a teetotalering house fly, well…

“Anywho, thash… not the important part,” Rarity intoned as she gave Graves as severe a look as her inebriated state would allow. “You, sssir, have got some ‘splaining to do?”

“I do?” Graves blinked.

“Sit.”

With only a moment to glance between Rarity’s dully stern look and slightly wobbling finger, the marshal returned to his seat as he gave her another curiously cautious glance.

“Alright then,” he warily started. “What’s up?” For a spell, Rarity said nothing, instead choosing to look him up and down with pursed lips.

“Why aren’t you naked?”

“… I’m sorry, what?”

“You should be… naked,” Rarity nodded firmly as she clambered from her seat and reached out towards his dirty coat. “Hurry up, now. We haven’t got all night.”

“Rarity, what the hay are you doing?” Graves started as he leaped up to avoid her grabbing hands. From the look she gave him, that was clearly the wrong reaction.

“Oh, so you’re fine showing off your – *hic* – goodies to Miss Roamanov, but not me?” Rarity snapped with alcohol fueled ire lacing every word. “She more speshul to you than me?”

“Wait, what?” Graves gaped. “What’s Neida got to do with this? And how did you–”

“AND thass another thing,” Rarity continued as she advanced unsteadily towards him. “How come you keep calling her that? S’that your speshul pet name for her, huh?”

“Pet name?” the marshal repeated, now thoroughly confused. “It’s just a nickname, that’s all.”

“Then how come I don’t have one, hm?” Rarity fumed. “How come you always call me Rarity? Why don’t I get a fun nickmane?”

“I’ll assume you mean nickname,” Graves quietly muttered.

“Wassat?”

“Nothing,” he quickly added. “Look, Rarity–”

“Nickmane!” she cried.

“Uh… Rares?” Graves fumbled out. From the lack of continued demands, it seemed to suffice. “Look, Rares, something’s clearly got you riled up.”

“No, really?” she gaped with so much dripping, caustic sarcasm, it was a wonder that the floors were still intact.

“Really,” Graves continued as jaws started to clench in irritation. “Problem is, I can’t read your mind, so unless you tell me what’s wrong, I can’t do anything to help.”

“Hmph, can’t read my mind, my heiny,” Rarity fumed. “I’ll bet you could read Miss Neida’s mind if you wanted. After all, you two are shooooooooo close.”

“Once again,” Graves pressed as his voice grew a shade hotter still, “what does she have to do with anything?”

“Everything!”

“That’s not helping.”

“And neither are you!” Rarity yelled. “If you’d just get naked like I shaid, everything would be fine!”

“Really,” the marshal challenged. “If I got naked, then everything will be fine?”

For a moment, the glassy-eyed girl looked to be seriously considering the question.

“Rarity–”

“No! Not Rarity! Rares!” the young lady cried as she suddenly burst into big, sobbing tears. “Why is she the only one who’s so speshal?! Why are you being so nice to her?!”

“Rarity, what–”

“Get out!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. “Juss! Get! Out!”

Graves didn’t even blink when the first pen struck him on the cheek. He didn’t even flinch when the inkpot hit his chest and splattered his shirt with pitch-black liquid. But as the constant rain of projectiles continued, as many missing as not as Rarity hurled everything and anything in arm’s reach, he finally got the picture.

“You know what?” Graves said, calm like the air before a summer storm. “Fine. You want me gone? I’m gone.”

The stream of objects continued to rattle out even after the door had closed.

With moon high in the sky, Araneida calmly strolled through the dim streets of Ponyville as she allowed her mind to relax and reflect.

She felt bad. Though she’d done so countless times before, the small pangs of guilt that came from fooling the innocent never really went away, and Rarity was about as innocent as you could get. Ever since their first meeting, the young lady had been nothing but kind and courteous. Even when the barbs had started coming in, she’d done her very best to keep calm and carry on despite the clear discomfort she felt.

And yet Araneida still pushed. With subtle barbs to enrage and strategic retreats to disorient, Araneida had knocked Rarity so off balance that the young lady had quickly toppled over like a narrow house of cards. All in all, it had been rather easy, as it always was with the creative sort. With minds that whirled away at hurricane speeds, all you needed to do was set the steps in motion and watch them tear themselves apart. Neurotic by nature, it worked well enough for things of the simple sort, but when you applied the right pressure to issues they truly cared about? It was like setting glycerin next to an open flame, with nothing to do but watch and wait.

Once again, the pang of guilt returned. It had been so easy because Rarity was clearly head over heels for Graves, and even that brief interaction she'd spied from the first evening made it clear that the two were quite happy together. But Araneida couldn’t sit by and let them simply be happy. Her mission was too important for that. That’s why she had to work.

Taking a cleansing breath to calm her nerves, Araneida returned to the marshal’s home and slowly opened the door.

“You look in trouble.”

Raising his head, Graves looked up at her as much concern showing as it ever did, which is to say, only a hair’s breadth away from nothing at all. But it was in that hair's breadth that the question lay.

“I guess?” he dully shrugged, a motion that made Araneida inwardly frown. Whatever battle he’d been in should not have wearied him so. In that case, there could only be one explanation. But address that later. Other business first.

“Why don’t you shower?” Araneida suggested. “Clean body first, clean mind second.”

It was only when she made the remark that Graves looked down and realized he was still in the same muddied, ink-spattered clothes from earlier.

“Ah. Right.”

With the soft scrape of wood on wood, Graves pushed the chair back and headed upstairs. As the sound of steaming water cascade, Araneida hung her coat on the wall peg and went to fetch some items from her room. She usually avoided working with tools – being self-reliant made for fewer variables – but tonight was a special exception and extra help was needed.

“Hey,” Graves called, toweling off his jet-black locks once more as he descended the stairs not five minutes later. “Can we talk?”

“Of course,” Araneida smiled as she waved him over to join her at the table. “I even have gift to help it smoothly go.”

“No way. Is that what I think it is?”

“Da. Real Yakutsk vodka,” Araneida beamed. “Souvenir from last visit.” Pulling out two small glasses, the Stalliongrad agent filled each to the top with the clear liquor before handing one to Graves and taking the other.

“Будем.”

“Будем.”

In swift, practiced motions, the two tossed the glasses back and downed the fiery contents in one brilliantly burning gulp. Savoring the cleansing heat for a few moments, Graves finally let out a long, contented sigh.

“Man, that’s good. Can’t remember the last time I had that.”

“I can,” Araneida chuckled. “Tikhorsetsk Falls, ja?”

“Right, right,” Graves nodded. “We captured a Crimson battalion, right?”

“Then raided their stores in celebration, as usual,” Araneida finished. “Of course, some not so festive as others.”

“What can I say?” Graves shrugged as he poured them both fresh glasses. “Being happy didn’t come quite so natural back then.”

“And now?”

“Now?” Graves repeated as he tossed back his glass again. “I’m getting better. At least, I think I am.”

Green eyes shimmered as Araneida finished her drink as well.

“Is about Rarity girl, is not?” she asked, the real lack of question bringing a wry grin to the marshal’s face.

“That obvious?”

“Not hard to spot,” Araneida smiled. “Of three great tragedies, empty purse and empty glass do not suit. That just leave empty heart, no? Besides,” she continued with a toss of her golden locks. “I am intelligence. I can see well.”

“That’s true,” Graves nodded as tumbled the empty glass across the back of his fingers. “Then maybe you can me why Rarity was fit to chew my head off.”

“Perhaps it is weak stomach?” Araneida suggested. "You ripe as bad made harkarl just moments ago."

“True, but it's probably not that simple,” the marshal chuckled. “For some reason, she kept mentioning you. And getting naked. No idea why.”

“… Ah, I think I see.”

Now it began.

“You do?” Graves asked as he looked up to find Araneida pensively frowning at the back of her hands.

“You must forgive me, Syeri,” she began as she poured them each a fresh glass. “I believe I am to cause for such mess.”

“How?” Graves pressed, grey eyes intent as he pounced on the lead. “What happened?”

“As you were gone,” Araneida explained, selecting each word with care as she broached the delicate subject, “I was of visiting Rarity. Friendly chat, to speak. That is when I tell her of blizzard at Mosbison Peak. She is… jealous of experience.”

“Jealous?” Graves blinked. “We nearly died of exposure. Almost lost my trigger finger to frostbite. How could she be jealous of that?”

“It seems those matter nearly not so much as sharing warmth in times of crisis.”

The marshal gaped.

“Really? That’s what she’s upset about? Doesn’t she realize that we would have been dead otherwise?”

“It does not seem she understands soldier ways,” Araneida shrugged as she downed her glass once more. “She is… not like us.”

“Huh,” Graves intoned. “I guess not.”

“This troubles you,” Araneida stated. It was a probe, subtle and gentle, but a probe nonetheless.

“Guess I was hoping for more,” Graves sighed as he emptied his glass. “I’d thought she’d understand that things are different out in the field.”

“She is young,” Araneida added with an encouraging smile. “And soft. You cannot expect her to see things as you do.”

“Still, it’d be nice,” the marshal smiled back, albeit not quite so brightly. “Beats having your ears singed off for nothing.”

For a few moments, green eyes considered the raven-haired soldier as his face grew steadily stonier. This was bad. His mind was occupied, distracted. He could not remain like this.

“Come. We practice.”

“Hah?”

Grabbing the marshal’s arm, Araneida dragged him out of his seat and doffed her turtle neck to reveal a sporting tank top underneath, much like the one she’d worn for training earlier that day. Tossing the unneeded garment aside, she drew her long, double-sided knife and dropped into a ready crouch.

“I catch you by surprise last time, so I go easy,” she smiled as the knife twirled deftly between expert fingers. “Let us see if you are truly wolf, or just pup.”

Surprise flashed across the marshal’s eyes, but only for a moment. The corners of his lips curled up in a slight smile as Graves reached for the silver-bladed field knife that always hung at his side. However, before it had even left its sheath, he attacked.

Leaping forward, Graves drew the blade in a single, fluid motion and slashed at Araneida, the first in what would become a grand flurry of flickering light and steel. Like the battle of yesterday, each combatant fought with life on the line as even the smallest mistake could spell the difference between a successful parry and a bloody death.

Yet while each gave no quarter and asked for none, among the slashing blades and violent strikes, every so often, Araneida could catch a faint grin flash across the marshal’s face, one that she undoubtedly mirrored as well. After all, aside from the two of them and the point where their blades clashed, nothing existed. Their entire world consisted of the battle and left no room for outside concerns. There was no time to worry, no time to think, no time to do anything but focus every gloriously awakened fiber of your being on the present in that exhilarating, delicate dance on the knife’s edge.

It was the feeling of being alive and one that few truly felt and even fewer understood.

Knocking aside a kick to the short ribs with his shin, Graves stepped in for a reverse grip slash to the throat, one that was quickly blocked by Araneida’s own blade. He pressed in, but she did not yield, and thus the two found themselves just inches apart, hearts pounding as the battle finally ground to a halt.

“Not bad,” Graves smirked as he relaxed, slowly, just in case his opponent had plans to renew aggression. “You’re better than I remember.”

“Pup is not only one who learns,” the lady rejoined as she pulled a golden strand from her face. “I am pleased you do not grow too soft.”

“Me? Soft?” Graves scoffed as he halted the sheathing of his blade. “We can go again if you want.”

“Nyet,” Araneida laughed as she tapped her own knife’s point against her temple. “It is not soft body I worry about, but soft head.”

The marshal’s own smile slipped as he caught the undercurrent of something more in her words.

“What do you mean, soft head?” he asked as silver steel fully met leather holster. “You think I’m going crazy?”

“Not crazy,” Araneida replied with a small shake of her head, the signal that would begin her attack. “Weak. Your easy times have dulled your fangs, Syerivolk. You are no longer strong as I remember.”

“I… don’t quite follow,” Graves slowly intoned, still confused by what his comrade’s words. Instead of answering him, Araneida instead stepped in and raised a hand to his chin, turning his head towards a gilded mirror, a simple piece suitable for any household, yet in her eyes, still ostentatious for a soldier like him. In its clear, clean surface, he caught sight of his reflection.

“Your eyes,” Araneida explained as her gaze fell upon his reflection as well. “When first met, your eyes were like now. Proud. Fierce. A wolf ready to crush throat of all who stand in way of duty and country. Yet when I return today, I find you small and weak, with eyes uncertain like child at first skating pond.”

“I was thinking,” Graves frowned. “Everyone gets confused.”

“Not you, Syeri,” Araneida smiled, the expression made to be sad, perhaps even nostalgic. “Never before have you been confused. The one I fought beside, the one I trusted, never had such doubts.”

“I’ve got more to worry about now,” Graves said as he turned back. “I’m not by myself anymore.”

“You wish for safe haven. I understand,” she nodded, agreeing if not quite seeing. “Even wolf has den when sun falls. But wolf cannot live with sheep, no matter how hard it try.”

“Rarity’s no sheep,” Graves chuckled dryly. “If anything, she’s a wildcat with claws too sharp for her own good.”

“Perhaps,” Araneida chuckled. “But even so, wolf is best with other wolf. If you live for battlefield, then you need one who shares that life.”

“And where would I find someone like that?”

Araneida smiled and hoped the fear lashing about within did not show in her face.

“East.”

“Hah?”

“In Stalliongrad,” the blond woman explained, schooling herself to calm, but unable to keep the haste from her words, “there is talk of exploration. With city safe, we turn eyes to Sibearian wilds and ancient ruins untouched for near two thousand years. There is much danger, but such promise of secrets to help the world, that Equestria would offer her soldiers to join me.”

“You?” Graves gaped? “You mean you’re–”

“Leading expedition?” Araneida laughed. “Of course. Can you think of better?”

“Never,” Graves chuckled. Just a moment before his face returned to brooding stillness. “So then your visit, all this…”

“Is recruitment,” Araneida smiled, a rare expression of genuine excitement. “You need time to sharpen fangs, and where better than in dangers of frozen wilds?"

"I... don't know," Graves rumbled,his face darkening and hardening with each word. "I have... something here. I can't just-"

"We need you," Araneida interjected, her words soft like leather, but only so much as a sheath around steel. "Mission is too important to fail, and we need good comrade to watch my back. We need Grey Wolf, the one who helped save our country those years ago. We need you Graves, so now I ask. Will you come?”

Behind those grey eyes, Araneida could see them, the roiling thunderclouds tossed about by the winds of thought. She'd done all she could to stir those winds. She’d set the table so that his ties to Rarity, the true anchor to this town, would be at their weakest when she asked this single question. Would it be enough? Would he be able to toss aside the chains that bound him and join her in the uncharted wilds where wolves like him truly belonged? Or would he be content to stay in that where peace would sap his strength and dull his fang?

Heart pounding in her chest, Araneida watched as Graves weighed his options, his face a regular mask of stony intent that even she could not read.

And then he spoke.

Chapter 6

When the violet-haired beauty awoke the next morning, it was to a pounding head and a mouth tasting of stale chocolate and regret. Still in yesterday’s clothes and even worse, yesterday’s makeup, Rarity was rather disoriented by the state of her dress and twice more confused when she found herself sprawled out on her living room couch instead of her nice, comfy bed. For the life of her, Rarity had no idea what was she’d been doing or why, a thoroughly unpleasant state that had her rather cross with her past self.

Then she remembered, and the groans began in earnest.

She’d told herself not to get jealous. She’d told herself not to get emotional. But she’d done just that, which lead to what always happened when she got into a truly frentic tizzy – she got out the chocolate.

In all honesty, she hadn’t realized there’d been so much liquor in those bon bons, but there had been, and the result was a series of conversations and actions that Rarity truly wished she could pick out from the fabric of space and time. Yet as much as she might wish it, she knew that the stain on the marshal’s shirt wasn’t the only one she’d have to deal with, or the most difficult.

Crawling up to her bathroom, Rarity rinsed the funk from her face and skin, thanked her lucky stars that the cosmetics hadn’t resulted in a pimple, and got busy readying herself for what she expected would be an incredibly unpleasant encounter.

Graves would be angry, possibly even livid, though he’d do what he could to hide it behind that stony silence of his. Of course, he had every right to be, considering the horrid way she’d treated him. Honestly, why had she taken out all her insecurities on him? He’d never given her any reason to doubt him, never even looked at another woman.

Okay, so he had talked with Miss Roamanaov more freely than anyone else she’d ever known. And he’d laughed a lot more with her than anyone else. And he’d gotten awfully, awfully close in their “sparring” matches. And he’d given her a cute nick–

No, no, no! She was not going down that trail again. Whatever he’d done, she was certain there had been no ill intent behind it, meaning that any unpleasantries were solely products of her own neurotic fancies. She would own up to her insecurities, apologize as profusely as possible, and pray to the twin celestials that he wouldn’t be cross with her for too long. Her nerves had never been good with angry silence.

Finally, freshly powdered, hair arranged, and dressed in her classic white blouse and pencil skirt, Rarity took a deep breath to gather her courage and went to see Graves, only to run into a slight hitch in her plans.

The marshal wasn’t there.

Locked and bolted as it always was when he left, the house was safely shut up like her jewelry box whenever Sweetie Bell came over. But where had he gone?

“Yo, ‘sup Rares?”

Starting in surprise, Rarity cast her eyes upwards and caught sight of the rainbow-haired flyer drifting lazily overhead.

“Oh. Hello, Rainbow Dash,” Rarity smiled. “Do you happen to know where the marshal might be?”

“Yup.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yup. He took the first train out this morning.”

“And how would you know that?” Rarity asked with more than a slight amount of surprise.

“ ‘Cause I saw him?”

“You were up by the first train?” Rarity blinked. “But… how?”

“Because I’m… always up?” Rainbow Dash blinked in return. “I always get an early practice in, just like the Wonderbolts. Duh.”

Well if that wasn’t just the satin lining on a bolt of linen. She’d always known Rainbow Dash to be the perpetually nap-happy loafer. Who’d have thought there’d actually be a reason?

“… Yeah, so like I was saying,” Rainbow Dash continued, “Seems like he was in a pretty big rush, wherever he was heading. My guess is Canterlot since that spy chick went with him and everything.”

This? This was precisely what Rarity did not need to hear.

“Y-you mean that he and… Miss Roamanov… left together?”

“Uh huh. Like I said, first–”

Now it was Rainbow Dash’s turn to be surprised as Rarity took off faster than anyone in heels has any right to move.

It was worse than she’d imagined, far worse. Of course, she’d expected that Graves would be upset with her, but to this degree? Then again, she had told him to – ugh – get out. Of course, it had been an excited utterance and one that had only intended to last till the following morning. But what if Graves had taken it more literally? What if… what if he’d actually– no, no time for pessimism. Now was the time for action.

With an energy born of almost desperation, Rarity jumped back to her desk, swept away the numerous candle stubs she could not remember burning, and instantly got to work. Graves was gone, but if the tear was still fresh and in sight, it’d be much easier to mend. If the marshal and – ugh again – Araneida had gone to Canterlot, and the chances were good they had given their mutual connections, then it might be possible for Rarity to use the city to her advantage and try to win Graves back.

Were Cadance and Shining Armor available? She’d have to see as they would be powerful allies indeed. Locations? The two hadn’t spent much time their together, but she could probably rustle up a few romantic spots for a hideaway, assuming he was still willing to– no. Pessimism later. Conversations? As long as Araneida was around, that would be tricky. How could Rarity maneuver so that she would be able to–

A knock at the door completely derailed her train of thought.

“Rrrrgh! Of all the… ugh. Coming!”

Trying to swallow the irritation of being interrupted, Rarity got up in a huff and went to answer the untimely summons.

“Uh, hi, Rarity,” Twilight Sparkle smiled, just a bit nervous upon catching her first look of her fashionable friend’s flashing eyes. “Is this a bad time?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rarity sighed, more exasperated at the circumstances than at her friend. “I seem to be having a slight… domestic dispute with Graves, so I really should be–”

“Oh, if that’s the case,” Twilight interrupted brightly, “then this might help.” And to Rarity’s great surprise, the town bookworm reached into her sweater vest and pulled out a envelope addressed to her in a very familiar hand.

“My word, is this from Graves?” Rarity blinked.

“Seems like it,” Twilight nodded. “Spike just burped it up a few minutes ago, so I figured I’d run it over and–”

Snatching the letter with unseemly haste, Rarity pulled open the plain wax seal and unfolded the document. There, in the blocky print she’d grown so accustomed to seeing, was a short, simple message.

“Rarity,

Please come to Canterlot by the first train tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.

Graves”

“… Uh, Rarity? You alright?”

“Huh?”

“You kind of drifted off there,” Twilight frowned. “Everything okay?”

“Oh. Well, yes I suppose… that is, I would think…” Taking a deep breath, Rarity recollected her thoughts and began anew. “Honestly, I’m not quite sure.”

“Ah, I see,” Twilight nodded in that understandingly enlightened way all scholars somehow seem to pick up through their books. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. After all, there’s nothing short of an apocalypse that can get between you and Graves, now is there?”

“One would hope not,” Rarity smiled weakly.

With a small exchange of pleasantries and tentative plans for tea later in the weak, Twilight bade her farewells and returned to the library, which left Rarity alone with her thought that now centered completely on the document in hand.

Graves had contacted her, which was good, right? After all, it meant that he wasn’t going so far as to cut all ties, as she’d feared. On the other hand, he’d never communicated by letter before; perhaps he was so upset with her that he couldn’t bear to speak with her? But what if he was just being considerate of her deplorable state from last night? She hadn’t liked what she’d seen, and she certainly wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to witness it either. But then again, he had left with Miss Roamanov, which could very well mean that…

Round and round the thoughts went, a veritable merry go round of thoughts that had about as much forward movement. No matter how much Rarity puzzled over the letter, there was just not enough for her to work with. All she knew was that Graves had left town with his agent friend after a particularly unpleasant meeting with her, but now wished for her to come to him. For even one as astute as her herself, the possibilities were simply too many to count.

Thus, the sun had set on a particularly odd day. Rarity had been all ready to face the music, only to realize the entire symphony had vanished. Whether this was a good or bad thing was well beyond her ken and with nobody who knew of the marshal’s intent, the most important question of why he’d left remained woefully unanswered.

Ah well, at least it would soon be clear, right? Crawling under her downy comforter – makeup meticulously removed this time – Rarity sighed as the malaise of a problem deferred without satisfaction dragged her into a fitful and uneasy sleep. Tomorrow, she would get on that first train to Canterlot. Tomorrow would be the day where she could hopefully resolve all this once and for all.

The first train to Canterlot always left just after sunrise, which meant that Rarity was up hours before in order to get ready. Preparation for big events always took some time, and today might very well be the biggest event since– no, it might very well be the biggest event period.

The perfect outfit. Silk blouse, newly made and tailored to fit like the famed qi pao with a navy pencil skirt just as snug and blue enough to bring out a subtle match with the sapphire of her eyes. Sensibly elegant heels and a thin chain of aquamarines about her neck finished the simple ensemble. Graves appreciated the simple. He would probably appreciate the look.

Makeup. With ample time this day, she could really get to work hiding the dark circles from too many restless nights. A dash of rouge, a brush of paint, and just the tiniest touch of powder to accent what was already there. Scents? A touch of her usual lavender perfume, perhaps. Just a touch. The marshal had a rather keen nose, and too much could be far worse than none at all.

Hair. A hundred strokes through her violet tresses brought out their inner luster and a quick twirl returned them to their usual, soft curls. Tie them up? She could try to redo the fanciful do she’d worn for the Gala last year. … no, Graves seemed to like the way they fell about au natural. She would leave it as is.

When finally she finished, Rarity actually look almost the exact same as she usually did. Almost. Anyone could a good job with the right paints and clothes. The real difference lay in the details. Everything Rarity had done was exactly in line with her typical attire, her look so to speak. It was only in the minute accents and those subtle improvements that elevated her from a very pretty girl to a stunning beauty.

She hoped. Whatever her own thoughts on the matter, the real importance came down to what Graves thought. Would it be enough to soften his mood and give her a chance to apologize? At that moment, she could only wait and pray.

As the train screeched into the station under a bright, late morning sun, an outwardly composed and inwardly frentic Rarity gracefully deboarded.

She hadn’t slept a wink. Usually, she could catch a few restful z’s on the long trip over from Ponyville. Then again, she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, so could she really have expected any different?

“Morning.”

With a muffled yelp, Rarity made a quick pirouette and found herself looking up into the gunmetal grey eyes of her beloved Graves.

“Good… good morning,” she replied, a touch breathless from the mix of surprise and jangling nerves. “How are you, today?”

“Good,” he nodded. “You?”

“Good. Quite good.”

“Good.”

It was an awkward conversation, but then again, it was a rather awkward meeting. While Rarity was usually good about picking up on the marshal’s subtle cues, he’d gone into one of his stony moods again. His face was decidedly more… impassive. Guarded. Whatever he was thinking, it was locked up more tightly than the Elements of Harmony where the sentries had been given clear orders to break rank for nobody. Not even with Rarity.

That wasn’t good. Or was it? She really couldn’t tell.

“So…” Rarity began once her delicate cough broke the stifling silence, “you… wanted to see me?”

“Yeah. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Rarity blinked. “Go where?”

“You’ll see.”

With no choice but to follow along behind as the marshal turned about, the two made their silent way across the station square. Silent, because Graves seemed about as chatty as a Brother of the Silence, and Rarity because the lump in her throat probably would have choked off any words she tried to say. Instead, she instead chose to watch.

He looked the same as he ever did, what with his broad, flat-brimmed hat pulled down and a long, leather coat gently rippling in the wake of his long strides. Really, it wasn’t fair. Here she was, positively beside herself with nerves, and he just strolled along all easy breezy, fancy free. Well, she had to admit it wasn’t all bad. After all, he had at least been willing to meet with her, right? Even if the circumstances were rather suspicious to say the least, that had to count for something. Plus, she got to watch him walk. No idea why, but there was something about seeing him, all stoic silence and immovable strength that sent a pleasant tingle all throughout her body. Really, why did he have to go hiding it so with that coat? Perhaps if she fashioned a…

As Rarity became increasingly absorbed in her pleasant little fantasies, she failed to notice where it was that Graves was leading. More her loss, because paying attention could have spared her a good deal of shock.

“Alright,” he rumbled. “First stop.”

Rarity started. She looked up.

…

Wait, what?

No.

It wasn’t…

It couldn’t…

It just didn’t make sense.

“Graves,” she gaped as breath left her lungs in a startled gasp. “This… this is…”

Chapter 7

Surreal. Adjective. To have the disorienting, hallucinatory, and fantastic qualities of a dream. Rarity may not have been familiar with the technical definition of the word, but she was certainly gaining a good grasp of the concept.

You see, while Graves was a regular in Canterlot, he kept strictly to certain areas and avoided others. Anything with even a hint of “hoity toity fanciness” as Applejack put it, was treated with the same prejudice as a Class 4 Quarantine. So when Graves had finally revealed the location and purpose of his most peculiar summons, it was of such an unexpected and outlandish nature that Rarity had no words to describe it except as surreal.

Graves had taken her shopping.

Yes, the Ghost of Thunder, a man who would rather throw down with a tauren chieftan than attend a high tea had voluntarily taken the fabulous fashionista shopping. And this wasn’t for military surplus goods, groceries, house-needs-fixing-up materials, or anything even remotely close to practical, oh no. Arrived at Canterlot’s famed Diamond District, Graves has quietly, some might say even pleasantly – at least as pleasantly as a man who never smiled could be in the circumstance, at any rate – followed along as Rarity tried on hats, dresses, shoes, jewelry, and more through a full tour through the dozens of boutiques lining the glittering way.

Then at the precise strike of noon, Graves called an abrupt halt to the spree. At first, Rarity had thought that even the marshal’s stone-trying patience had worn out, and indeed, it was remarkable that it’d lasted as long as it did. However, it seemed that the only reason for halting the morning’s activities was because they had more activities to deal with.

As two Academy cadets – a small girl with bronze-colored hair and a bean sprout with glasses – whisked away her purchases, the Ponyville duo headed over to the Chubby Goose for a leisurely lunch with all of Rarity’s favorite Canterlot people. Lunch gave way to a tour of a new modern art exhibit, which in turn gave way to a delightful afternoon tea complete with idle chit chat and social banter. And just when Rarity was sure that nothing more could surprise her after such an unexpected day, Graves had laid down the piece de resistance.

Opera.

She had no idea how and even less idea on why, but somehow, Graves had managed to secure two box seats to the evening performance of La Traviata as performed by none other than Prima Donna herself. Though Rarity had always wanted to see this show, one touted as an exemplar of Equestria’s culture and art, never would she have imagined that she would be seeing it today, and with Graves, no less, who stayed awake and alert through the entire performance.

The final trilling notes rang, the audience applauded, and soon, the young couple found themselves outside once more, seated in front of a cozy, little bakery with steaming cups of fresh coffee in hand and piping hot beignets on the way. It was here, slowly sipping on quality roast as the sun set and the city lights twinkled to life, that Rarity got her first chance to reflect.

She’d had a wonderful time. Marvelous really. But not once through that entire, almost perfect day, had she been able to shake the strange, dreamlike feeling that permeated the whole affair. Not that she feared foul play, by any means. The tension in the marshal’s jawline showed that he hadn’t been brainwashed into enjoying the events, and small mannerisms – the way he leaned back in his seat in thought, for example – ruled out Changelings. No, her main question was, and still remained as simple as ever.

Why?

Graves hated society. Not the people, but the circumstance. He found it stifling, awkward, inconsequential, and painfully, painfully, boring. So why on earth would he have put in such effort into arranging such a personal ordeal, especially after the dreadful way she’d behaved not forty eight hours ago? He’d given no indication of his intent, so as Rarity sat there, daintily picking at a fresh pastry under the first stars of night, she wondered.

A few of her thoughts were pleasant. A few.

“So…”

Rarity started. It was the first word Graves had really directed her way all day.

“So…” she repeated. She had no idea what else to say.

“You have fun today?”

“Oh my, yes,” Rarity beamed. “It’s been positively ages since I saw Lady Uptown, and Chic Sublime’s newest designs just came out, and of course, the third movement with Don Epon’s aria was simply–” Realizing that she’d begun rambling like a toddler about seeing the tigers at the zoo, Rarity gave a delicate cough and, with pink-tinged cheeks, resumed at a much more reasonable, ladylike pace. “That is to say, today has been wonderful.”

“Mm, good,” Graves nodded slowly. “That’ll make what I have to say a bit easier.”

Oh no. Not now. With a keen understanding that every word spoken could make or break resolve, Rarity launched a calculated, pre-emptive strike. Reaching slender fingers across the table, the young woman took one of the marshal’s calloused hands into hers and took away his chance to speak.

“Graves,” Rarity interrupted, needing no affect to bring the anxious trill into her voice. “I understand that you’re upset with me, and you have every right to be. I have done terrible things to you, and I can understand how you’d never wish to speak with me again.” That admission hurt a lot more than she’d expected, but the violet-haired beauty pressed on as the urgency in her heart spilled out with every word.

“You know I’m sorry, Graves, and you know that I love you. I can’t undo what I’ve done, but you can be sure that I will do everything I can to make it right. Just give me a chance and I’ll prove that I can change. All that I ask is that you give me a chance. Please?”

“…”

“…”

“Um… okay.”

Rarity blinked.

“Really? Just like that?”

“I guess?” Graves shrugged. “You wanna change something, go for it. Don’t need my permission, do you?”

“Well, I sort of do if you’re breaking up with me.”

Now it was the marshal’s turn to blink.

“I’m breaking up with you?”

“You mean you weren’t?” Rarity gaped in surprise, an expression that was quickly mirrored by Graves in response.

“Rarity, I just put myself through a morning of shopping, an afternoon of small talk, and opera. Opera. Why the hay would I do all that if I was breaking up with you?”

That… was actually a really good question. Why would he?

“Because you were trying to give me a last, fond memory before the inevitable, soul-crushing despair to follow?” The tentative smile Rarity offered was returned by a look flatter than a planed board.

“… Rarity, have you been reading Twilight’s fan stories again?”

“… Maybe…”

Confirmed with a sheepish smile, Graves could only slump head into hands as a long and well-deserved sigh leaked out of a dumbfounded chest.

“Rarity, nobody breaks up like that,” the marshal remarked as gunmetal grey eyes, positively brimming with pained pity, rose to meet hers once more. “Seriously, nobody.”

“Noble Shale did,” Rarity mumbled, but not too loudly. Citing the lead character of an objectively pulpy and completely indecent wish-fulfillment novel would probably do her no discernable favors.

“And even if they did,” Graves continued, “what makes you think I would? What makes you think I’d break up with you at all?”

“Because I was so wretchedly horrid to you,” Rarity cried out in abject vexation. “You did nothing wrong to me and yet when you came to me that night, I raged at you, lashed out, and pitched a hissy fit like a… a spoiled child. It was absolutely atrocious.”

“I’ll say.”

It was only when Rarity’s stunned eyes found the slight curl on the marshal’s lips that she realized it had been said in jest. Well, mostly.

“But that’s what I don’t get,” Graves resumed as his eyes hardened with the glint of a hunting predator. “What exactly did I do that got you so mad?”

“You didn’t do anythi–”

“I did something,” Graves interjected. “Maybe without intent and maybe even nothing wrong, but something about me got you mad. What was it?”

Looking into those gunmetal grey eyes, Rarity could see that Graves would not be dissuaded. He was on the scent of something and you could be well sure that he wasn’t going to give up until he’d figured out what it was. So, with a resigned sigh, Rarity answered the question.

“… You were too nice.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, you were too nice!” Rarity repeated with a great deal more heat than expected. She’d come to make peace with Graves after all, but she’d be tinsel on a tea gown if she wasn’t still upset. “Ever since you got back, you’ve been spending all your time with Araneida and not me! And I know, you invited me to tag along, but it was always with things that I don’t really like to do! I mean, I could have done it, but it just wouldn’t be the same, not when I have to see you two looking like you’re having the time of your lives without me, so I tried to put up with it, only I couldn’t because I was just so–”

It was only as her tirade truly fell into stride that Rarity realized she’d become the impromptu center of attention. During her soliloquy, all other patrons had fallen silent as a clearly upset, but still beautiful woman had begun regaling a silently stoic companion with the most deliciously delightful woes. Emotional or not, this was Canterlot, and drama was as much food for them as the meals on their plates.

“So you were, what… jealous?” Graves finished. With a sullen nod, Rarity slipped lower into her seat.

“I know you were just being a good friend,” Rarity replied through a lower lip that stuck out further as her pout grew deeper, “but I still didn’t like it.”

“But why?” Graves asked again, still hunting for an answer he still didn’t have. “I’m… ‘nice’” he added with hooking fingers, “to, Twilight, Fluttershy, and everyone else. Why’s Araneida got you so bothered?”

“She’s… special,” Rarity frowned as her sulk grew worse. “You don’t go on missions with Twilight, and you don’t do all your fancy marshal training with Fluttershy. I can do things for you in Ponyville, just like anyone else, but I can’t… you know…”

“You can’t be everything,” Graves breathed as understanding finally clicked. “Because we’re so different.” To this, Rarity slowly nodded.

“Araneida has everything I do, and more. She’s clearly smart, definitely shares your sense of humor, and is… quite… pretty…” The last admission came through gritted teeth, but come out it did, nonetheless. “But whereas I’m stuck in Ponyville just waiting for you to get back from all your hair-raising adventures, she can go out and be with you as they happen. That’s a part of your life that I’ll never be a part of.”

As a tear welled up in her eye, Rarity hastily dabbed at it with an untouched napkin. For Celestia’s sake, she’d told herself she wouldn’t cry. She’d worn waterproof mascara just in case because no reason to be foolish, but still. Graves, however, remained silent, his face an impassive mask as the effects of her words were left best to the imagination. It took perhaps a minute, though it certainly felt longer, before the marshal spoke.

“Check please.”

“Hah?”

Realizing that he had been speaking to the waiter and not to her, Rarity watched in puzzlement as Graves settled the bill and waved her along. Leaving their untouched pastries, behind, the two headed out into the coolness of a fresh, spring eve.

When curiosity got the better of her, Rarity finally spoke.

“Where are we going?”

The marshal had been leading them towards the palace for some time now, but not quite. Always heading in a slightly more western bend, lively avenues and boulevards gave way to the quiet courtyards and public gardens that surrounded the castle.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Graves said, his voice the same low, gravelly rumble it always was. “About what you said. How we’re different.”

“And?”

“And you’re right, we are different. We come from two completely different places and live two different lives. By all accounts, it’s a miracle we’re together at all.”

That stung. Rarity had had the same thoughts herself, but hearing the marshal state it with such matter-of-fact ease stung like a sharp blow to the cheek.

“You’re also right that Araneida and I get along,” Graves continued. “She’s a brilliant soldier and we’ve got a lot of good history together. Fact is, if I needed someone to watch my back in the field, she’d be on the short list, no problem.”

Okay, the last one had stung. This just downright hurt.

“And yet,” Graves said, footsteps halting as he turned to fix Rarity with hard, silver eyes, “none of that really matters because I chose you. Araneida wasn’t the one I near committed treason for, and she’s certainly not the one I sat through an opera for.”

“But… but that’s just it,” Rarity fretted softly, sapphire eyes hazy as they kept eyes fixed on the ground, unable to look up. "I know you did that, Graves, and Celestia knows how hard it was for you…”

“Hey, even I don’t hate culture that much,” Graves chuckled.

“You know what I mean,” Rarity giggled despite the tears that continued to well. “It’s just… I know I’m not an easy person to love. I’m moody, temperamental, demanding, fickle, jealous and so much more. When you add in how different we are, I can’t help but worry that someday you’ll grow tired of it all and choose someone else.”

“I see,” Graves nodded quietly. “Then it’s a good thing we came.”

Resuming his long, even strides, Graves continued leading Rarity further through the shaded park. Turning at an unexpected moment, Graves headed down a small, neatly laid path a grove of trees next to the palace wall. By all rights, the unassuming gateway could have been one of any number of servants’ entryways except for the presence of two, armed guards.

“Evening,” Graves called out as he showed his marshal’s badge to the raven-armored sentries. “Mind if we go through here?”

Eyes flickering between the silver of the badge and eyes, the two guardsman parted ways and saluted as Graves ushered Rarity through to a most peculiar sight.

It was a park, but unlike any Rarity had ever seen. Where flowers, trees, and all manners of greenery would have grown, the spacious plaza was paved over with smooth, polished marble and filled with slabs of the same pristine stone carved all over with delicate scrollwork. Placed equidistant from each other, the entire courtyard held nothing beyond these stone plinths and the atmosphere of solemn simplicity.

“What is this place?” Rarity asked in wonder as she followed Graves between carving after carving. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

“Most people haven’t,” the marshal rumbled. “Not exactly a popular spot, but I figured it’d suit us just fine.”

“Really?” Rarity blinked. “How? Why?”

“Because,” Graves answered. “There some folks you need to meet.”

Meet people? Here? And at this hour? What could the marshal possibly mean? As Rarity looked around, she once again confirmed that save for them, there wasn’t a soul to be seen in that entire plaza. All that stood were those numerous marble slabs with their intricate decorations…

… no. Not decorations. Words. Names.

To the young woman’s surprise, a closer inspection revealed that without exception, every single marble slab was carved over and about with countless names. There must have been hundreds of them, thousands, as each monument they passed stood covered head to foot in carvings of beautiful, regal script. It was to one of these monuments, one resting near castle wall much like numerous others, that Graves approached. There was nothing exceptional about this piece save for the fact that the marshal stood before it and looked. Looked, as Rarity noticed, right at a small collection of names carved into its cold, smooth surface.

“So, we’re here,” Graves sighed with a wry smile as he raised a hand to remove his broad, flat-brimmed hat. “And it’s time I told you a little story.”

Chapter 8

Whisper silent, like a shadow flitting on moonlight, a youth melted through the trees to arrive at the small clearing in the second training forest where he’d been ordered to appear. Appear at the location, he’d been told. Await further instructions.

Honestly, Graves didn’t expect much. He knew his grades were nothing stellar with his only real strong points being marksmanship, stealth, and some degree of martial prowess. They weren’t bad, but they weren’t exactly the traits marshal squads were clamoring to recruit. A marshal needed to be a well-rounded super star, as adept in battle tactics and military theory as well as in all forms of practical combat. For him, lean of body and not even into his sixteenth year, he’d be lucky to get recruited at all.

A loud rustling accompanied by even louder voices gave the grey-eyed boy more than enough warning. Darting up a nearby tree, Graves pulled together a thick cluster of branches and melted into the leaves like ice into water. Just because he’d been given an assignment didn’t mean he had to blindly wait out and exposed. He’d do his job, but he’d do smart and start with some good old fashioned observation.

With a mighty roar, the underbrush exploded as the largest, wildest looking man Graves had ever seen tore into the clearing. He was huge, no two ways about it, standing at least two spans tall and more solidly built than Haydrian’s Wall. With a heavy, double-headed axe in one hand and an even heavier plate shield in the other, it was clear that this was a man who enjoyed getting up close and personal with his work.

“Confound it, Nova!” he roared, an act that sent a ripple through his fiery red mane of hair and a flock of birds to flight nearby. “I told you that wasn’t a shortcut! This is the last time I ever – and I mean ever – trust your sense of directions again!”

“Aw, come on you big old grumpy bear, you,” a young woman – probably the aforementioned Nova – said with a cheeky grin as she emerged from behind. “It’s not every day we get to find a nest full of pixies!”

With twin braids of electric blue that dangled to her waist, the lithe young lady moved along with a spring in her step that belied the very large firearm strapped to her back. Graves had studied them in class, but he’d never had the opportunity to actually see a tri-barreled mana cannon before, especially when wielded by one with a physique more lynx than lion.

“I hate pixies,” the big man growled. “Blasted little buggers, always dancing around, scattering blighted poof dust everywhere, fit to piss the bile out of a bastadon.”

“Well I for one had a lovely time,” Nova retorted with a flash of her merry green eyes. “And I do believe my lovely sister here enjoyed herself as well, didn’t you, my dear Terra?”

It wasn’t often that Graves was surprised, but this was one of those moments as for a second, he saw double. It wasn’t till he took a second look and noted the short, shoulder-length hair of dark purple that he realized they were in fact two separate people.

Twins. Of course. That made much more sense.

“Come on sis, tell him,” Nova laughed as she draped herself across her double’s shoulder. “Tell Hot Streak here how wonderful pixies are and what a lovely time we had.”

Terra, a woman who positively radiated calm to the point of drowsy, turned her gaze to the red-haired man and appraised him through heavy eyelids for a slow moment. Then, she simply raised a hand and gave him a small thumbs up.

“There, you see?” the merry gunner laughed. “It’s official, pixies are nice.”

“Well of course she’d agree with you,” he grumbled. “She always agrees with you.”

“That’s not true!” Nova gasped, hugging her twin closer in shock. “We disagree all the time!”

“Oh really?” Hot Streak said with eyebrow raised. “Name one time.”

“How about right now?” she replied. “I mean, Terra thinks we should wait and see what happens, but I think we should give the spying little kitty a warm welcome. See? Different.”

Graves froze, breath catching in his chest as grey eyes widened in alarm. No, they couldn’t know. He’d hidden himself perfectly. There was no way–

“As surprising as it is, I find myself agreeing with you,” the massive man said with an equally massive sigh. “We’re late as it is, and I want to get this all done with before dinner.”

Hefting his axe over one giant shoulder, Hot Streak turned around and locked his golden eyes on the precise spot where Graves had hid. The young boy knew they couldn’t actually see him through the cover of leaves, but that piercing, golden stare made it clear they knew of his presence.

“Oy! You there!” the big man called upwards in a booming voice that scattered all animals for a hundred paces. “I’m not exactly in the mood for climbing trees, so why don’t you come down from there and let’s get this all squared away?”

From his perch on high, the boy’s mind furiously ran through his options. He had no idea who these people were and didn’t known one from Adam. But they knew he was there, and that meant they were good. If he did go down and they turned out to be dangerous, well… that would probably be it. Of course, the element of surprise had already been blown, so his chances were bad to begin with…

“Looks like he’s not coming down,” Hot Streak sighed once more. “Nova, you think you could send a few shots his way? Maybe scare him out?”

“You got it, Papa Bear!” the gunner smiled as she unslung the miniature cannon from her back.

Grey eyes went wide in alarm.

Unslinging the tri-barreled blaster from her back, a faint mechanical hum as it began spinning was all the warning anyone had before she fired. In an instant, the air blazed blue as a stream of electric blue flames burst forth and torched the treetop with a torrent of hundreds of fiery darts.

“Confound it woman! I said scare him, not barbeque him!” Hot Streak cried out over the gatling roar.

“Hey, death is scary!” Nova grinned. “And besides, he’s not gonna go down from a little suppressive fire; this kitty’s too quick for that.”

And she’d be right. Had the young soldier been one whit slower, things would have been very, very bad. Fortunately, the young soldier had not been one whit slower and managed to leap from his perch just as it was blown apart by a fusillade of flame. Tucking into a tight roll, Graves hit the ground and launched himself behind a nearby boulder, heart pounding almost as fast as the number of fiery shots.

Okay. At this point, Graves still had no idea what these people wanted, nor frankly did he really care. They’d opened fire on him, which was more than enough incentive for him to retaliate with extreme prejudice.

Taking a deep breath, he relaxed the grip on his spell gun as he gathered mana and channeled it into the weapon. The process was still a bit rough, but smooth enough that he managed to charge a strong shot in a reasonable amount of time. Satisfied with the rifle’s faint silver glow, the young man took a quick peak around the rock, steadied his nerves, then opened fire.

A fast movement. A quick stand, trigger pull, and drop. But the shot was good, and the crackling bolt of electric fury flew towards the gunner, dead center on her thin chest. It was definitely a good shot, save for one, fatal flaw. It never made it.

Moving far faster than a man his size had any business moving, Hot Streak threw himself between the two and caught the arc blast full on his steel shield. The lightning flared and hissed, crackling over the barricade that now glowed with its own arcane light before finally fading into the ether.

The outpouring of blue fire stopped as the trio of strangers stared in surprise.

“Hey, did I just think what I thought I saw?” Nova asked. “Because I think I just saw the little kitty pull out some tiger claws.”

“You can say that again!” Hot Streak hooted as he burst out into laughter far louder and stronger than anyone who’d been shot at had business laughing. “Buck it, if that don’t just beat all! To think, a little chickadee like him would be bringing out the thunder! You were right, Nova; this is a very good day indeed!”

Okay, so Graves had to admit that these people might not be bad, or evil, or anything like that. But there was no denying that they were grade A, organic, harvested-straight-from-the-tree nuts. And that’s why another lightning blast crackled against the heavy metal shield. They might not be bad, but crazy could be just as troublesome, if not a whole lot worse.

“Whoa there,” Hot Streak called out as he caught the next bolt. “Looks like we done spooked the munchkin but good. Terra, you think you can knock him out of his hidey hole? Get him into the open?”

The boy couldn’t see the silent nod of assent, nor could he see the quiet woman unsling the large cannon from her back and brace it against the ground. He could hear, however, and the first thing he heard was a soft, heavy whumph. This prompted him to look up, which allowed him to see a large sphere glowing red between shifting black spots sail through the air right towards where he hid.

Another dive, another close shave because no sooner had the ball struck ground then it exploded into a fountain of dirt and debris and red hot magma. Scampering behind a close by tree, Graves turned his wide grey eyes towards the three foot crater that sat exactly where he’d been only moments before.

“What is with you two?!” Hot Streak roared as he rounded on the quiet bombardier. “I said scare him out, not blow him to kingdom come! Honestly, do neither of you know the meaning of restraint?”

Two pairs of green eyes met in a moment’s consideration. Two identical girls replied with equally cheeky shrugs.

In the meanwhile, Graves was considering his steadily diminishing list of options. It was clear these people wanted him for something, and the fact that they were trying to shoot him to get it wasn’t making him very receptive to their goals. So what to do? The big man clearly could put up an iron wall defense, especially since they knew his current position. Then, outgunned by spray-and-pray and overkill, it wouldn’t be long before their superior firepower pinned him down. That left only one option: get out and get out fast.

“Well, since it looks like you two can’t be trusted not to splatter the boy, I guess I’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.” With a heavy sigh, Hot Streak hefted up the tools of his trade and proceeded to approach the tree. Metal shield raised before and axe held to the side, the big man approached on surprisingly soft steps, creeping forward closer and closer till he was right on the other side. Then, with a sharp jump, the red haired man rounded the tree and–

White light flared as Hot Streak caught a lightning bolt to the face. Or very nearly. With shield poised as it was, he’d managed to duck behind the steel barrier just in time. This was as expected, and using the moment of blindness, Graves dashed around the tree and made a break for it.

Straight towards the two gunners.

A moment’s hesitation was all he needed. Surprised that the boy would run at them and not away, Nova was a speck too slow in raising her howitzer. In that space, Graves managed to raise his rifle and launch a second blast at one of the blaster’s three barrels. It wasn’t much, mostly just light and noise with the minimal amount of mana available, but it was enough to blind the gunner, throw off her aim, and let Graves get in close. Swinging his rifle, the grey eyed boy aimed a sharp blow for the gunner’s jaw–

–but was intercepted by the silent Terra.

Catching the gun with her own hand cannon, the grenadier immediately retaliated with a darting blow to the face. Deflecting with his own hand, Graves lashed a foot out towards her abdomen in return, but this she parried with a knee before sending a crushing elbow towards his face. Barely managing to duck, the young soldier was forced to roll away, but not, however, before grabbing the strap of Terra’s cannon and giving it a forceful yank.

The tug plus the momentum of the roll was enough to unbalance Terra and send her bumping into Nova. The moment’s confusion gave Graves the precious opening needed to gain distance. Now behind the two gunners, he raised his rifle, the one he’d been charging ever since he’d dashed from the tree–

–but froze as Hot Streak loomed large in his sight.

Looking around, Graves saw that the brief distraction had given Nova enough time to extract herself from the tangle and train her tri-barrel on him, eyes lit up with excitement as if just daring him to try something. Terra now watched along, if not quite as enthusiastic, at least as ready now that her mortar system was back up and fully charged.

“Not bad, boy,” the burly man grinned in amusement. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

There was no way he could hit any of them. Hot Streak was too close and cut off too many angles. There wasn’t a shot to make.

Unless…

Slowly raising his rifle, making clear that neither motion nor its angle were a threat, Graves pulled his trigger and released the energy charged within.

“Aw, he gave up,” Nova sighed, sounding audibly disappointed as the blast went wide. It was only then that the boy allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

Indeed, he hadn’t, because his target had never been the three in the first place. Instead, it had been the tree, the one near torn in two by Nova’s intense barrage of flames. Slicing through the wood like a hot knife through butter, a cracking that sounded much like thunder arose as the tree, now pushed passed its structural limits, neatly toppled with a roaring crash. Right towards the four of them.

Everyone leaped aside, not wanting to be on the business end of probably ten tons of heavy, aged lumber. With a thunderous crash, the tree landed to raise up a tumultuous cloud of dust and dirt upon impact.

Terra was the first to react. Planting her cannon, she charged and released a small vortex bomb with just enough concussive force to clear the air and restore vision. Gun raised and axe poised, the others assumed formation, eyes training to catch sight of their prey.

They saw nothing.

“Hmph. Clever little squirt,” Hot Streak laughed, the booming sound hardly reaching the fleeing boy who by now, was long, long gone.

Chapter 9

Lungs burned, but he didn’t stop. Legs ached, but he kept going. As fast as his thin, hardened body could carry him, Graves put as much distance between himself and his potential pursuers as he could. He doubted it’d be much – they were obviously well-trained and could undoubtedly keep up – but anything was better than nothing.

Rounding the crest of the second hill in the forest, Graves lightly scampered up a tree and made doubly sure to conceal himself in a dense weave of tree branches and leaves so that not even a winter-starved squirrel could find an acorn on his person. Then, and only then did he finally allow himself to breath a weary sigh of relief.

He probably needn’t have bothered.

“That’s some impressive legwork there, shorty,” a voice called from a suspiciously short distance away. “Rare to see a cadet who’s got that sort of spell-less speed.”

Spinning about with rifle raised, Graves locked piercing grey eyes on the source of the voice, which was to say, a very peculiar sight indeed. A man, not quite old enough to be considered no longer young, if the stubble on his face was any indication, sat lounging in the branch of a nearby tree. Neatly attired in a tailored waistcoat and broad, flat-brimmed hat, the stranger appeared dressed for a day on the town and yet was clearly anywhere but.

“Whoa, easy there,” the man answered with hands held up in peace. “I just wanted to talk, is all.”

Graves continued staring, eyes hard and finger but half a hair from pulling the trigger.

“Okay, keep it up if you want,” the man shrugged, “Just figured I’d mention that your cover’s too perfect to work. Might want to fix that."

The young soldier blinked. Too perfect? Was there such a thing?

Silently, Graves mentally reviewed the sniping hut he’d constructed. Woven of nearby branches and leafy clumps, it was a natural looking tangle of clumped up greenery that completely concealed him…

…

Oh, of course. It completely concealed him. Nature provided cover, but nothing would ever be quite good enough to prove such thorough camouflage, especially if it was designed to blend in as a natural mass. Fact was, by creating such a perfect shelter, Graves might as well have painted a target on his back and shouted out that nothing here was worth seeing.

Flicking eyes back to confirm his suspicious, Graves returned attentions to the man who’d so quickly spotted the flaw and–

–found that he’d vanished without a trace.

Graves blinked once more. He’d only turned around for a moment, fractions of a second at best. Nobody could disappear that quickly, or that quietly for that matter. Unless… maybe there hadn’t been anyone around to begin with? The man was strange enough that for a moment, the lad wondered if his psyche had finally cracked like all the other cadets whispered it would.

At the sudden flight of a bird off yonder, Graves put aside extraneous thoughts of mysterious strangers and psychotic breaks as he got to work on the task at hand. Tearing branches from his hut, the young soldier naturalized his too perfect cover. It would no longer conceal him completely, and portions of his drab green cadet’s tunic would pop out, but it’d be thinner at least. For now, he’d have to bank on the colors being less noticeable than the shape. It wasn’t a pleasant gamble, but they were the best odds he had to work with.

Reasonably satisfied with his work, Graves then got to work on the second task of charging up his spell gun. With unwavering eyes, the young soldier ignored the darting shocks of feedback as he forced mana into the rifle as quickly as possible. With cover that would hopefully last a little longer, he might now have the element of surprise back in hand. All he had to do was make sure he could take advantage of that surprise and launch a hard strike first.

With a long, slow breath, Graves breathed out and carefully partitioned his gathered stores into separate shots, none very powerful, but one strong enough to take down at least a single target. Bracing the rifle across the arm resting over his knee, Graves assumed his practiced firing stance and exhaled.

He waited. And waited. And waited until…

Underbrush rustled as something approached. Drawing a bead not on the target, but where he expected the target to be, gunmetal grey eyes glinted across the iron sight as his trigger finger tightened. The rustling grew louder and louder still, and…

Fire.

The instant that massive form appeared at the forefront of the trio, a blazing streak of crackling lightning roared across the scant fifty paces separating the parties and straight for the big man’s head. With the sound of roaring thunder, that massive steel barricade rose up to catch the blast full on as the two others quickly ducked behind in cover.

Just as Graves intended.

In the instant he’d fired his first shot, Graves had already adjusted and launched a second in such rapid succession that the thundering blast sounded one and the same. This one seared not for any head or vital organ, but instead for the big man’s foot.

With shield obscuring vision, the man had no time to react before the crackling bolt struck home and sent cascading lighting darting up his leg. He didn’t fall. Though only Luna knew how he could stand on a leg gone instantly numb, the fire-haired man somehow remained upright.

It didn’t matter, though, for the third shot was already on its way.

With the main bulwark immobilized, Graves threw himself from cover, drew a new angle’s bead, and fired. The others had ducked behind that impenetrable wall, but it was a wall that only guarded one side. From his new position, the lightning had an unimpeded path towards the blue-braided girl, just like before. This time, however, there’d be no shield left to save her.

But that’s where Graves was wrong.

It sprang from the ground, a solid spear of pristine, flawless ice that caught the lightning before it had chance to strike. In a shower of mist and freezing dust, the ice shattered while leaving those behind it completely safe from harm.

Graves was surprised, so surprised that he forgot to release the final charge for his spell chain, which is not a good thing to forget when you’re suddenly airborne a good forty feet in the air. Fortunately, this little oversight was quickly rectified as ice bloomed beneath him to form a long, steep slide. The young soldier suddenly found himself sweeping down a frozen shoot, slaloming off an ending ramp that sent him careening into… well, nothing actually. Though Graves flew through the air, he didn’t land when expected as whirlwind caught him and gently lowered him to the ground right before the waiting three.

Another icy luge appeared and from a distant treetop, the man from before descended, albeit with a far greater degree of grace and control than Graves had shown. After alighting on a similar whirlwind, he holstered the pair of ornate, if well-worn pistols onto his belt as he approached the grey-eyed soldier.

“Hey there,” he smiled as he reached out a hand. “You al–”

Words cut off with a surprised yelp as he ducked back and narrowly avoided a crushing blow from the young soldier’s spell gun. Graves knew he was outnumbered and outgunned, but that didn’t mean he was going down without a fight. Even as the rifle whistled past, a hooking heel kick was already following around, which in turn was succeeded by a ripping throat strike that too, just barely missed.

“Whoa, settle down there,” the man called out as he just managed to avoid an elbow to the solar plexus. “I just–”

Stomp to the knee.

“–want to–”

Kick to the groin.

“–ask if–”

Gouge to the eyes.

“–you wanted to–”

Suddenly, heaven and earth switched places as Graves found himself with a faceful of dirt, shoulder precariously torqued as the man now held him in a joint lock that threatened to separate arm from body with the slightest twitch.”

“Gah, jeez, kid,” the man called out as he slowly worked a now stiffening jaw. “All I wanted was–”

And just as suddenly, the pressure was gone. Looking up, Graves realized that the man was now tumbled several paces away as his previous spot now stood occupied by–

“Now where do you get off doing something like that?” Hot Streak snorted as he frowned and the man and stood… protectively over Graves? “I get that you’re in a pissy mood ‘cause he managed to deck you, but come on, he’s just a kid!”

“Wait, what?” the man blinked. “Listen, I’m not–”

“Yeah!” Nova firmly nodded as she leaped over to help Graves to his feet. “Only the biggest of big jerks goes around beating up little kids. I honestly expected better.”

“Now hold on a second,” the man called out as he stood and made to approach,” I was just–”

But before he’d proceeded two paces, the man suddenly found his way blocked by the whisper-silent Terra. Looking down at Graves with her soft, sleepy eyes, she extended a hand to pat his head and softly rustle his hair for a few moments of quiet consideration. Graves had no idea what was going on, but seemingly satisfied, the cannoneer turned around, and with eyes full of silent contempt, simply said,

“Mean.”

“And there you have it!” Hot Streak boomed in thundering joviality. “Don’t worry kid, if even Terra’s speaking up for you, then it’s–”

“Gah! Don’t jinx it!” Nova cried as she clamped a hand over his mouth. “Sis’s magic word powers don’t work if you make a big deal of it! You’ve got to–” Whatever she planned to say suddenly cut off with a yelp as Terra yanked a long, blue braid with a sternly severe look.

All the while, Graves just stared as he felt… well, it was honestly hard to say what he felt since he had no idea what was going on. The three people who’d attacked him were now defending him from the person who’d helped him before going right around to helping the other three? Why? It didn’t make any sense, and the fact that there’d hardly been a finished sentence since he’d landed certainly wasn’t helping. Add on the fact that Terra continued ruffling of his hair with a look of supreme satisfaction meant that circumstance bodily tossed logic out the window to leave Graves about as lost as a blind, congested mole.

Meanwhile, the man with the broad, flat-brimmed hat seemed to recover enough to put some coherence to the circumstances.

“Look, I wasn’t trying to hurt the kid, okay?” he began with calm, if clearly wearied patience. “I just wanted to get him settled enough so we could go over his assessment.”

“Evals?” Nova snorted. “What, you think you’re running some kinda game show here? Nerd.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that,” the man shrugged, “but since we’re looking at a possible recruit, we have to do the reviews.”

“Recruit?” Hot Streak blinked. “You mean that’s why we’re out here?”

“Of course,” the man gaped. “Didn’t you read the briefing?”

“I never read the briefings!” Considering how proudly he declared that last one, the stranger’s weary sigh seem more than warranted.

“Okay, since it seems like nobody has any idea what’s going on,” the stubbled man continued after liberal massaging of aching temples, “I figure I’ll start at the very, very top.”

Raising a hand to show no ill will – whether for his own sake or for the suddenly protective trio, Graves couldn’t be sure – the man in the broad, flat-brimmed hat reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a silver badge. Emblazoned with that familiar, winged shield, gunmetal grey eyes grew truly wide as he spotted the small, golden star shining from the very center.

“The name’s Captain Polaris, and I’ve been commissioned by General Ironside to assemble a special marshal squad. You, Cadet Graves, were recommended as a candidate.” Stepping forward, the now named captain handed the badge overs so that Graves could give it a closer inspection. He needn’t have bothered. Even those ever suspicious grey eyes could see it was the real deal.

“Oh, so you’re saying he’s gonna be our fifth man, is that it?” Hot Streak boomed in understanding.

“If he qualifies, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Polaris nodded before his voice dropped to a quietly frustrated murmur. “Of course, if you’d bother reading the reports, you’d know that by now.”

“Yeah, yeah, memos are serious business,” Nova called with rapidly waving hands. “Now let’s hurry up and get to the good stuff. How’d the little kitty do?”

“Pretty good. Very good in fact,” Polaris nodded. “We need a sniper, and a lightning mage with that uncanny marksmanship would certainly fit the bill. Good close range combat means he can take care of himself and his ability to process information and adapt tactics on the fly makes him well suited for independent operations. And besides,” he smiled, “he’s definitely a fighter, no doubt about that.”

“So he’s in?” Hot Streak grinned. “I gotta say, anyone who can land a shot on me has got my vote, enchantments or no.”

Graves stared. Was the aura mage actually saying that he hadn’t even used any magic?!

“Mine too!” Nova beamed. “We got enough old farts around here that a little young blood would spice things up a bit, ain’t that right, sister dear?”

From where she now leaned on the young soldier’s head, Terra gave the silent thumbs up. The captain nodded.

“And I’d agree with all of you, except for one small, or should I say, really big problem. I think you all know what I mean.”

Like the sun hiding behind a bank of clouds, all smiles vanished. Straightening his hat, Polaris approached Graves and looked him in the eyes. It was only then that Graves noticed they were two different colors, one a somber green and the other a solemn blue.

“I’ll be straight with you kid,” Polaris said, his voice low and calm, but as unyielding as a stone fortress. “You did good, better than anyone could’ve expected of you given the circumstances. But that doesn’t change the fact that you had your orders and you didn’t follow through.”

Graves said nothing. Get to the clearing. Wait for further instructions. Though nobody could have expected him to hold his ground against three opponents of such caliber, the fact remained that he hadn’t done as he’d been told. He might have tried protesting. Others probably would have. But when Graves looked up and saw the conviction in those bicolored eyes, protesting suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

Only when he was certain of the young one’s silence did Polaris continue.

“You want to join the marshals. That’s great. Go for broke, be the best, have a dream and all that jazz,” he man continued. “But I’ll tell you something, kid. We marshals? We can’t fail. If others fail, they fix it. Maybe they get some extra help, maybe you burn the midnight oil, but more often than not, there’s a safety net to make sure it works out. Marshals? We get one shot because we are that net. We get the jobs where failure is no longer an option. You understand?”

The weight seemed to grow even more as Graves struggled to remain standing, to keep breathing.

“So here’s your choice, kid. You wanna walk away, nobody’s gonna blame you. This life ain’t for everyone, and I sometimes think it ain’t even for those who take it. But if you’re dumb enough to sign up under the winged shield, then know that today is the last day you’re ever allowed to fail. From now until your final rest, victory is your only option. If you want to be a marshal, then success is all you’ve got. Is that really what you want?”

Graves looked to Hot Streak, then Nova, then Terra, and back to Polaris. The weight was crushing, so heavy that it felt as if a single grain of sand could break him. Even the touch of a single hair would probably be enough to crush him where he stood. But he hadn’t broken yet, and so, with grey eyes strained but still trained like the barrel of his gun, Graves said,

“Yes.”

The three exploded. Nova laughed, Hot Streak roared, and Terra actually broke out into a visible smile. Then with eyes shining the color of summer sky and wintergreen, Polaris pulled out a new silver badge and pinned it to the young marshal’s chest.

“It’s a hard road you’ve chose, Graves,” the captain smiled as he placed a warm hand to the boy’s shoulder, “but you won’t have to walk it alone. Welcome to the Twenty Sixth.”

Chapter 10

By the time Graves finished his story, sweat dripped from his brow and down a face with a pallor to match the marble around. Legs, usually so sturdy and strong, trembled like a newborn foal’s as a man who’d fought off gigantic arachnids and demonic beast melds without so much as batting an eye looked ready to keel over at the next gust of wind. In all her days, Rarity had never seen the marshal so unsteady on his feet.

But then again, he’d never done anything quite like this.

“Anyway, that’s how we met.” Graves rasped as he pulled an already damp sleeve across his forehead. “What next…? Right. So–”

Rarity would not let him speak. Grabbing his arm, the violet-haired beauty bodily tossed him towards one of the simple, polished benches. As he fell into the seat, she pulled out both wand and handkerchief, summoned a small trickle of water from the cool, evening air, and wetted the square of linen before thrusting it into the marshal’s hand. Needing no instruction beyond the demand in her sapphire eyes, Graves wearily wiped his face and heaved a shuddering sigh.

“Feeling better?” Rarity asked softly once he was done. Once she confirmed a small nod of his head, all gentleness faded away as her eyes flashed with blue fire.

“Good. In that case, would you mind telling me what the hay were you doing?!”

“I thought–”

“No, you obviously weren’t thinking,” Rarity interjected as she seized the handkerchief back. “If you were, then you most certainly wouldn’t have worked yourself into such a sorry state!”

“Sorry?” Graves blinked.

“Yes, sorry,” Rarity confirmed as she began to furiously pat at the marshal’s face and neck in his stead. “Honestly, just look at you, sweating as if you were struck with withershanks fever. What could possibly possess you to push yourself so hard?”

Though her words were still hot and miffed, it was a sort of warm, comfortable anger that matched the firmly gentle pressure laid out by her slender hands. She was obviously still upset with the marshal, but only because she was practically beside herself with worry. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but the scene brought a crinkle to the corner of the marshal’s mouth.

“Same reason I organized today, really,” he shrugged.

“And that would be?” Rarity asked, still patting, still with a frown on her fair brow.

“I needed proof.”

Suddenly, the cool dabs stopped as Rarity’s hand froze in midair. She looked Graves as the heat slowly cooled to a tremble of concern.

“Graves, you have–”

“Nothing to prove?” he interjected, a satisfied smirk appearing as Rarity’s face lit up with surprise at his undoubtedly accurate prediction. “Sure I do.”

“You… you do?” Rarity blinked.

“Don’t you think?” Graves asked, still grinning like a sober Cheshire cat. “Like you said, you got mad because you were jealous. You wanted to be, oh, how’d you put it… ‘speshul’, was it?” The flush of crimson that bloomed in Rarity’s cheeks confirmed the marshal’s suspicions.

“But… but why this?” Rarity asked, hesitant as she made a small gesture towards the monument before them. “Why tell me about them?” Though she didn’t ask them aloud, the real questions rang out loud and clear in her silence. Rarity knew that of all the things Graves did, speaking of the past was not one of them. For all the suffering those memories had caused him, reminiscing was more akin to grabbing an open coal than anything else. Why then, would he choose this path over any other?

Graves didn’t answer when the smile slid from his face. He didn’t reply when his eyes grew cloudy with thought. But when those gunmetal greys hardened with piercing intent, the marshal finally spoke.

“You, Miss Rarity, have got a lot of nerve,” Graves called out as he raised an accusatory finger. Needless to say, the Miss Rarity in question was rather shocked.

“I… I do?” she blinked.

“Yes, yes you do,” Graves firmly nodded. “You recall when you came to visit me in the Changeling camp? You left, but I chased you back down, remember?”

How could she forget? He’d blown out the engine of a Stallion-class transport with a well-placed blast of lightning, snuck past a hull of crewman, and taken multiple beatings from her friends for his troubles.

“After I tracked you down, we had a little talk, you and I,” Graves continued, his voice a gravelly rumble that sounded of a looming avalanche. “Then at the end, I made you a promise. You remember what that was?”

Of course she remembered. Each and every word of his was engraved on her heart as the promise of a man who’d given everything he had to her. Just remembering those words brought tears to Rarity’s eyes to glisten and shimmer in the pale moonlight.

“Yeah, I thought that’d be enough,” Graves sighed. “I mean, I figured that a promise like that would be enough to make you realize just how important you were. I was wrong.”

“Graves–”

“I was wrong,” Grave interjected with hand raised for pause, “because that wasn’t fair to you.”

“It… wasn’t?” Rarity blinked once more.

“How could it be?” Graves shrugged. “Making promises is easy. It’s the follow through that trips people up. That’s why we needed today. All of it.”

Though his eyes were still focused and sharp, the steely hue of the marshal’s eyes softened as he took Rarity’s hand into his.

“I didn’t expect this to be easy,” Graves frowned as he held Rarity’s gaze with unwavering intent. “Fact is, it should be anything but. You’re a fancy lady who throws hissy fits at the drop of a hat and I’m a gunslinger with issues. Lots of issues. We go together about as… well… everything I just said.”

The marshal’s eloquence brought forth a small bubble of laughter from the lady’s lips. With a knowing smile, Graves continued.

“We knew it’d be hard. But I made that promise because I knew it’d be worth it. You’re afraid we’re too different? I can handle a full day of fancy living and the bucking opera. Think that’s a one off? A day of croquet and tomorrow’s ballet says nothing, but nothing can keep me down.”

Laughter came again, much louder and stronger despite the tears that once again welled in sapphire eyes. Graves raised a calloused finger to wipe a stray drop aside as he continued once more.

“You also said that you didn’t feel special. You said I was too nice to Neida and that made you feel… replaced?”

“Graves–”

A finger pressed to her lips silenced her protests as a grimace came to his face.

“Yeah, about that. Maybe… you were right,” Graves sighed. “I’ve saved your life before, but I’ve also saved hers. We’ve gone on adventures, but Neida and I have more. Looking at that, it sort of makes sense how you’d think she was special. I didn’t want you to, but I didn’t know any way to change that, except… well… except for this.”

Even as he spoke, a faint sheen of perspiration came to the brow as the recollection of his ordeals burned at his mind once more. Rarity’s hand squeezed his till her knuckles turned white.

“So,” Graves continued once he finished swallowing the lump in his throat. “Right now, you’re the only one I’ve ever told that story to. There are others, and I’ll… get to them. Eventually. But I want you to know that those stories? Every last one of them is yours because no one could ever, ever replace you. Got it?”

Rarity merely nodded.

What more needed to be said?

Far out of earshot, just close enough to see, a blonde-headed woman turned and began walking away.

“Seen enough?” Shining Armor asked as he fell into step behind her. Quietly, she nodded.

“Take care of him, yes? He is now… open.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“I fear for him. The heart can drive any to madness, even wolf.”

“He’ll be fine,” the captain shrugged. “Right now, I’m more worried about you.”

“Because I failed, yes?”

“I… tried to warn, you,” Shining Armor answered, bringing a hand to his navy hair as he awkwardly scratched his head. “Rarity and Graves have something special. You weren’t going to get between that.”

As she passed beneath the now unguarded archway, the woman paused in the shroud of shadows cast.

“Your Cadance. If she was in arms of other man, would you not fight, even against impossible odds?”

“I… would,” the captain admitted. “But why like this? Why not another way?”

Out from the darkness, laughter came.

“Perhaps is only way I know how.”

As the steps resumed to carry the woman away, the soft peals laughter slowly faded into the night. Or maybe they were something else. It was honestly hard to say.

Beneath the moon’s soft light, Rarity and Graves sat together, her head resting lightly on his shoulder as his arm held her close.

“So that’s really why you organized today?” Rarity smiled. “A personal test?”

“Eh, mostly,” Graves smiled. “Plus, having you in a good mood never hurts.”

“Oh, it may,” the young lady laughed. “Now that I know you’re so comfortable in Canterlot, I may just expect you to join me more often.

Graves blinked.

“… That was not my intent.”

Rarity laughed aloud once more as a weight sitting on her shoulder for days was now free and lifted. However, she paused as a thought transformed her smile into something less.

“Graves,” she began, “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it anymore, but there is one last question I have. About us.”

“Shoot.”

“Do I…” Rarity paused to gather the courage needed to speak, “do I make you weak?”

Slowly, the marshal turned meet her gaze.

“Rarity… I nearly passed out telling you about them because I wanted you to feel special. If anything, you give me a reason to be stronger.”

Those words sent a warm tingle to the very core of her inmost parts.

“… Funny you ask though,” Graves frowned. “Neida said something like that too. You guys talk about that, or something?”

And here, Rarity paused. They had, in fact, discussed the issue, though it was more of Miss Roamanov lambasting her for being a liability over her own inability to protest. She could tell the marshal that of course and let him know just how harshly the visiting woman had been. Knowing Graves and his protective nature, the next meeting between them would be decidedly cooler.

“... We did,” Rarity nodded. “She thought I was bad for you because I might end up distracting you from the fight. She was worried.”

And surprisingly, Rarity found that she believed it. Though Araneida had wielded words with a skill to rival the dressmaker’s own, even all of that cleverness could not help the lady spy hide one simple fact: she cared about Graves. A lot. Whether or not Rarity agreed with her cause, she could understand that feeling. So whether it was because of concern for one of the marshal's few friends, or a simple act of solidarity for one who loved the one she herself loved, Rarity left her words at merely that.

“Heh, that’s Neida,” Graves replied with a fond smile. “Sometimes I think the fight’s all she thinks about.”

“But is she right?” Rarity pressed.

Graves paused.

“Ironside had a saying. ‘Only thing more deadly than a man with nothing to lose is a man with everything to lose.’ You, Rarity,” he grinned, “are way too much to lose.”

And surprisingly, Graves found that he believed it. For years, he’d thrown himself into battle because there was no reason not to. Now that he had Rarity, things were different. He had a place to come back to, a person to welcome him home after the battle was over. He’d always fought knowing that duty was something to die for, but Rarity was finally something he wanted to live for.

So he would fight. Demons may come and devils may block his path, but the marshal would press on. He would complete his mission, survive the ordeal, and live to come back to the woman at his side.

Survival had always had a cost, but now? Now Graves was finally willing to pay the price.

The Journey of Graves concludes in the final story: Journey's End.