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.