It was dawning on Rarity that her post-show summary of the fourth Manehatten Avant Garde(n) party had been somewhat presumptuous when it had come to the reaction to her new line. She glanced over the top of the book at the duvet caterpillar that had until moments ago been her sister, and which was now scrunching itself up in the approximation of a pout.

A long sigh escaped her lips. Make that definitely presumptuous. Why, there was probably no audience in Equestria more critical and demanding than the one sat before her right now.

“Whatever is the matter this time, dear?” Like turning two raggedy scraps of cloth into an attractive écharpe, Rarity felt a sense of satisfaction as she moulded tiredness and impatience into something a little more polite. Prim, perhaps, but polite.

The caterpillar vibrated… angrily? “Yo’r sh-phoiling i’agin, Rare-te!”

Rarity placed the problematic book on her lap and massaged her temples. “Perhaps we can try that one more time, dear—with a little more femininity and a touch less material?”

Sweetie Belle stiffened for a moment before emerging from the duvet frown-first. Honestly, burnt sienna of all things; what was her mother thinking? No wonder the little darling was being so difficult.

“I said you’re spoiling it again, Rarity! You keep changing all the words!”

Rarity wondered whether unicorn magic was enough to keep the genial smile on her face. Her muscles were clearly no longer up to the task alone. Sometimes it was so hard to be appreciated.

“Sweetie Belle, how could you say such a thing? I am most certainly not spoiling it. In fact, it would be nigh on impossible to spoil something this, this—" she tried plucking the word from the air with a hoof “—vulgar. I’m merely providing it with some… embellishment, that’s all. Giving the text the makeover it so obviously needs.”

Sweetie Belle folded her forelegs and narrowed those pale jade eyes. Rarity cleared her throat.

“Now then, where were we?” Her eyes flicked over the pages of the offending article, and she suppressed a shudder with what she had to work with. “Ah, yes. And what of the (sardonically named, in my opinion) Dashing Sword, last seen galloping fervently as the nefarious dragon laughed, nay roared, of his conquest to the world? Well, dear listener, wait no more; the brave knight, with armour untarnished from a lifetime of—”

“I’m gonna tell Mom and Dad if you keep emblish… emb… ruining the story!”

She wouldn’t stoop so low, surely. Rarity assessed her sister’s expression; how had she developed such an excellent poker face? An image of cards and casino chips appearing on Sweetie Belle’s flank passed fleetingly through her mind, and she shuddered. Oh horror of horrors.

“Fine, fine. Even though it brings me considerable distress, I shall give you the unabridged, trite, version.” She looked quickly to the book so she didn’t have to see that triumphant grin, and continued reading. But oh, what a hideous fable this was! Granted, it was old enough and dusty enough to be gracing the classics section of Golden Oaks Library, but in this case being vintage made a poor case for the defence; at some point in time, somepony had still felt the need to impart the message that it was perfectly acceptable for a damsel to sit on her hooves waiting for a brave knight to save her from harm. And whilst she could appreciate the inherent desirability of a gallant and courteous pony, why did it require the mare to be so, so useless?

Rarity’s eyes flicked to the illustration opposite. And apparently this one’s helplessness extended to her wardrobe too.

“‘Dry your eyes and fear not, fair Fragile Feathers,’ cried Dashing Sword, as he raised his lance towards the fearsome dragon. ‘For shortly I will have slain this vile beast, and you’ll be carried far away from this terrible place.’ Rarity suppressed what would have surely been an unladylike whinny. Oh, but of course. Can’t risk her cracking a hoof or anything, poor dear. Much safer for her to sit and watch—

An idea suddenly came to her.

It was a nasty, unpleasant idea—gauche, even.

And, as such, it was utterly alluring.

She affected a distraught expression. “But, before the knight could even blink, the dragon leapt forward and gobbled him up whole. And in that heartbreakingly tragic moment, the princess realised that she would need to rely on her own ingenuity, strength and wit to overcome—"

“MOOOOM! Rarity’s being mea—mwphhhh!”

As she removed her hoof from Sweetie Belle’s mouth Rarity attempted her it was all in jest, darling, honestly laugh, but it lasted all of two seconds against the dark power of those shimmering eyes and trembling lips. She sighed; the story was leaving a most vile taste in her mouth, but the emerging pricks of guilt were worse.

Just about.

“Sorry, Sweetie Belle.” She moved across the bed to sit beside her sister and wrapped a foreleg around her shoulders. “Perhaps I was being a trifle mean then.” Leaning forward, she closed the book and placed it on the bedside table. The rest she could do from memory. “Let’s see, the knight tricked the dragon into spitting him out; he slays the evil beast, rescues the princess and they both lived—”

Happily ever after? Well that was the only conclusion to draw really, given the nature of the story, but Rarity found the words turning into abstract shapes in her mouth. She manipulated them; flipped them this way and that with her tongue, before swallowing them down again and looking across at her sister.

“-in… joy, peace and… harmony. There, how was that?”

Sweetie Belle’s brow furrowed and she chewed her lip in thought. Rarity felt a sudden burst of pride at how much a sense of scrutiny her sister could radiate from such a simple expression. She would go far in life; Rarity could feel it in her hooves.

“It was all right,” came the verdict. “You used to read it better though. And anyway, I thought you really liked that story.”

An odd sound escaped Rarity’s throat. It might have been a laugh at some point in its tragically short life; it could equally have been a whimper. She ran a hoof through Sweetie Belle’s caterpillar-infused mane. “Perhaps our tastes just change over time,” she reasoned.

“Hn, I hope not. I love what I love now.” Those pale eyes looked troubled for a moment, before brightening considerably. “Oh! Are you seeing Applejack tomorrow? I wanna go and practice with Apple Bloom for our scarecrow cutie marks.”

A fond smile twisted Rarity’s lips. “A little soon to be making do with a dress of scraps and offcuts for the ball, isn’t it?”

“Eh, we’re using cannons. It’s gonna be fun.”

Rarity blanched. “Well… as it happens I will be going over to Sweet Apple Acres. This latest show of mine has held me prisoner in Manehatten for far too long.” A warm flutter danced across her chest. “Absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say.”

Sweetie Belle giggled as though a great secret had just been shared with her. “I’m so glad you and Applejack are marefriends. When you get married and move into the farm together, can I come with you? Me and Apple Bloom would get so much crusading done if we saw each other every day.” She paused and frowned in thought. “I dunno what Scootaloo would do—hey, would you let us build her a house on the farm?”

Rarity’s scalp prickled. It was an unpleasant sensation—something that usually happened during a show when trendsetting socialites whispered about her line as if she were out of earshot. Not to steal Pinkie Pie’s thunder, but a scalp that prickled usually meant something was going to hurt in the near future.

“Well now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, darling. And anyway, why would you presume that I’d be the one moving?” So far, the subjects of living together and picking out matching diamond horseshoes hadn’t even been spoken of in jest, let alone given serious consideration, and that suited Rarity just fine. Besides, Sweet Apple Acres was charming, but over the years Rarity had found its rustic qualities didn’t go well with her complexion; or mane; or… well, anything, really.

Sweetie Belle merely shrugged and wriggled under the duvet. “I don’t know. Me and Apple Bloom were just talking about it and we figured that Applejack always has so much work to do on the farm that it wouldn’t make sense her being the one to move out.”

Rarity felt a tremor pass through her eye. There was that sound again.

The orator ascended the stage with a confidence and swagger that belied her inexperience; every hoofstep echoed dignity and grace; every idle flick of the tail demanded the attention of her audience. The natural auditorium was basked in the most enchanting dappled sunlight; even the trees granted due respect to the pony, and danced their branches to her tune. Amongst this world of wood and flowers she spoke, and the audience sat captivated and in awe of her majestic delivery. She spoke of a common folk tale—a tale warped and twisted over the years to such an extent that no pony now knew the truth behind it. No pony, except her.

The orator stamped her hooves passionately as she recounted the true story of the legendary knight Dashing Sword and the beautiful princess Fragile Feathers. Oh, how she captured the very essence of the princess; frustrated in her attempts to escape by the crude wit of the dragon, and imprisoned in a stone tower of indeterminate height. Carved just as accurately from her words was Dashing Sword, the brave and honest knight who was well-meaning, if sometimes unable to see the impact of his actions. The orator recounted perfectly the moment where Dashing Sword and the evil dragon traded insults and threats as they circled the tower, each staking a claim to the princess. This performance continued for three days and three nights and, during this time, clever Fragile Feathers decided that she was not to be debated over like a pound of fresh apples. Whilst the dragon was distracted by the knight, she braided a rope from her own mane, and used it to descend the tower.

The orator paused for a moment to assess the impact of her delivery so far, and was pleased to see the audience tremble like a newborn foal. Then, she launched into the climax of the tale. Princess Fragile Feathers, observing that Dashing Sword’s lance had been discarded whilst he attempted to hoof/claw-wrestle the dragon into submission, quietly crept up to the weapon and plunged it into the vile creature’s heart. To say that Dashing Sword was surprised by this turn of events was an understatement, and he was even more surprised when the brave princess informed him kindly that she had no need of his services, and was quite able to return to her own castle to live happily ever after, thank you very much.

The orator stood with forelegs raised high and wide and awaited rapturous applause. She was surprised, therefore, to see a confused frown on the face of the audience. ‘Um, it was nice,’ came the review. ‘But wasn’t it just a little bit aggressive… if you don’t mind me saying so, that is. I mean, the dragon was only doing what dragons do. Surely he shouldn’t be slain for being himself—that’s a terrible moral for a story to have.’

The auditorium grew silent; the branches laughed and shadows fell across the stage.

‘Oh, and also, seeing as you asked, I actually quite liked the romance in the more recent version of the story. Surely everypony would like some special pony in their life.’

The orator emitted an undignified cluck of the tongue, and calmly told the audience that, whilst she would take her comments on board, she probably shouldn’t have expected much from a pony who has tawdry romantic novels stacked from floor to ceiling in her cottage. The audience quailed for a moment, before frowning. ‘But, but, you gave me most of those.’

The quill was cradled in azure light as Rarity stopped writing to remove her glasses and massage her muzzle. Carousel Boutique was silent, with the exception of Opalescence’s light breathing as she slept on the bed. It was the type of silence that usually fed and watered inspirational thoughts, turning them from seeds into blossoming trees. Tonight, though, the sound of the blood pounding in her ears was drowning out the silence, as well as everything else. Usually, where clothing was concerned, she would have no trouble rolling out several outfits and a couple of choice accessories in a single night when her flanks were against the wall. With this task though, inspiration was elusive even without such a tight deadline.

Gazing out the window beside her desk, Rarity realised she had started to count the diminishing lights of the houses as the town gave itself to the night. How long she sat there for was anypony’s guess, although when she finally pulled herself from her ruminations she could still see the upstairs light on at Sugarcube Corner. It wasn’t late late then.

Just beyond the bakery lay the lazy ‘v’ of the two hills forming the natural path to Sweet Apple Acres, and as her eyes were drawn to it she instantly felt the tickle on her neck from where Applejack had gently nibbled her earlier.

It had started as an itch, and Rarity simply despised itches. In her line of work, itches tended to mean that the garment was ill-fitting; that the cloth hadn’t been properly chosen for the skin-type of the wearer.

They meant that something was wrong, and that something had to be fixed.

And it was all Sweetie Belle’s fault. Doubly so, in fact. Not only had she made Rarity read that Celestia-forsaken fable in the first place, but she had also rebuffed one of her—quite reasonable, in her opinion—criticisms with a remark that had since anchored itself firmly in her mind.

‘Well, if you hate it so much then why don’t you write one yourself!?’

If her sister one day developed a splinter on her flank, Rarity would not be overly surprised.

As the days went by the remark had become a seed, and that seed had become a tree. It still hadn’t blossomed, and Rarity had no idea as to whether it would look divine or tragic when it finally did, but she reasoned that as she had allowed it to grow thus far she may as well help it achieve its potential. After all, there was simply nothing worse in life than a dream going unfulfilled.

And so it was decided. She would craft a version of that fable that held a more positive message for Sweetie Belle. The only problem with the plan was that the source material was so utterly reprehensible. Princess Useless Hooves, once, no doubt, a strong and independent monarch-in-waiting was now reduced to sitting around in a tower—spending her days crying and waiting for somepony to come and rescue her. And as for Dashing Sword; well, no doubt his boundless strength and limitless chivalry were genuine, if a little unrealistic, characteristics, but indirectly he was simply smothering the princess and reinforcing her helplessness. And, now that she thought about it, who said that the brave knight had to be a stallion anyway?

Rarity sighed deeply and looked down with barely focused eyes at the parchment before her; blank, except for three crossed out lines. What a pair they were. One destined to sit at home waiting for the other return from the day’s exertions; the other not coming back home to anything really at all. The scenario pained her more than she thought it would.

No. Sweetie Belle deserved a better source of influence than this. Particularly when it was something the little darling wanted to read every night.

Like you did.

The thought held fast in the thick air before Rarity swatted it away irritably. She had much to do, but was hopeful that this wouldn’t keep her away from her new order for too long. After all, when the original was this bad, how hard could it really be?

The orator ascended the stage with a confidence and swagger that belied her limited experience; nearly every hoofstep echoed dignity and grace; nearly every idle flick of the tail demanded the attention of her audience. The hilltop was a burnished crown atop Ponyville; no finer place for the orator to speak of a common folk tale—a tale warped and twisted over the years to such an extent that no pony now knew the truth about it. No pony except her.

No pony except her and the pony from her previous audience who, the orator grudgingly accepted, had contributed a little to its composition.

Ignoring the murmurings of the audience, who complained of being woken up from a delightful-sounding midday nap, the orator stamped her hooves passionately as she recounted the true story of the legendary knight Dashing Sword and the beautiful princess Fragile Feathers. Oh, how she captured the very essence of the princess—frustrated in her attempts to escape by the crude wit of the dragon, and imprisoned in a stone tower of indeterminate height. Carved just as accurately from her words was Dashing Sword, the brave and honest knight who was well-meaning, if a little unable to see the impact of his actions. The orator recounted perfectly the moment where Dashing Sword and the evil dragon traded insults and threats as they circled the tower, each staking a claim to the princess. This performance continued for three days and three nights and, during this time, clever Fragile Feathers decided that she was not to be debated over like a pound of fresh apples. Whilst the dragon was distracted by the knight, she braided a rope from her own mane, and used it to descend the tower.

The orator paused for a moment to assess the impact of her delivery so far, and was pleased to see the audience look on in rapt silence. Then, she launched into the climax of the tale; princess Fragile Feathers, observing that Dashing Sword’s lance had been discarded whilst he attempted to hoof/claw-wrestle the dragon into submission, quietly crept up to the weapon and used it to render the vile beast unconscious via a quick blow to the head. To say that Dashing Sword was surprised by this turn of events was an understatement, and he was even more surprised when the brave princess informed him that if he had a desire to be her husband, and live happily ever after with her, then it would be within her castle and under her rules. Then, she tossed him across her flanks and galloped off home.

The orator stood with forelegs raised high and wide and awaited rapturous applause. She was surprised, therefore, to see a confused frown on the face of the audience. ‘Eh, it was okay,’ came the review. ‘But it needs way more action, and at least twenty percent less of all that sappy stuff.’

The hilltop grew silent; clouds passed across the face of the sun. The orator frowned and repeated the calculation.

‘At least,’ the audience clarified. ‘Ponies are bonded more through action and danger than anything else, you know. You should totally read some Daring Do; that’ll give you some tips!’

It was a fact known to all of Ponyville—and one occasionally celebrated—that Applejack never told a lie. Or at least almost never, and a consensus had still yet to be reached as to whether her comments regarding that miracle curative tonic had been more embellishment than fib anyway. What was, however, less known to the ponies outside of her immediate circle of friends and family was that Applejack often had trouble picking up on lies. Perhaps it was simply the influence of her element, making her honest to the point where she accepted things at face value. Whatever the cause, in that moment Rarity was glad of it.

“Now you’re sure you don’t wanna join us?” Applejack looked from her marefriend to the piles of boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. “That, uh, little job of yours has got the rest of us as hungry as a grizzly on the first day o’spring.”

Rarity smiled. Or at least she thought she did; it had been a long day.

It had been a long month.

“Oh it sounds delightful, darling, really it does, but I’m afraid my work is only just beginning. I still need to double and triple check the inventories, and go over the sequence my outfits will be unveiled at the show.”

Applejack studied her face more a moment, and it suddenly felt as though Celestia was bringing the sun itself down to bear on her. Then she grinned the raw, unguarded grin that always brought a flutter to Rarity’s chest.

“If you say so, sugarcube,” she chuckled. “I best start reading up on all that fancy magic and whatnot, seeing as you’re Tartarus-bent on turning into Twilight. Won’t have nothing to talk to you ’bout otherwise.”

“Har. Har.” Rarity tried to scowl, but Applejack disarmed it with a quick nuzzle.

“Jus’ pulling your hoof. I’ll be getting outta your mane then. See you tomorrow?”

Rarity quietly inhaled her marefriend’s deep scent, and desperately fought back the desire to give her a playful nip on the neck.

“Honestly, Applejack dear, there’s really no need. I’m a grown mare, and I’m sure I can handle the booking of a taxi and arranging some boxes to be loaded onto a train.”

Applejack gave her flanks a gentle squeeze. “Didn’t say you couldn’t now, did I. But my Rarity is heading off to another famous fancy show; helping you get there is the least I can do when I ain't able to come with.”

Rarity bit her tongue. Apparently she wasn’t a grown mare then. She blinked, realising that Applejack had pulled away and was looking at her expectantly.

“Sorry, darling, I must have zoned out there for a second.”

Applejack smiled softly. “Basking in the catcalls already huh? I said I’ll see you tomorrow at eight then. No arguin’.” She held Rarity’s gaze for a moment. “Love ya, Rares.”

“I love you too.” In the relative silence of the boutique it felt as though some other pony was saying those words. She blinked again. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow then.”

It was only when the door closed that she realised she had stopped breathing. Levitating the already completed inventory to eye level, Rarity tried to ignore the attempts of the grandfather clock to match the rapid patter of her heart. She was suddenly aware of all the fabric off-cuts on the floor and the sound of Opalescence softly breathing. She was suddenly aware of all the cluttered work surfaces and the tightness of her jaw.

She was aware of the terrible ache in her chest.

With a shuddering sigh, she tossed the inventory to one side and walked into the adjoining room, where the chaise lounge and the bottle of sangiovese awaited. A poor substitute for a massage and manicure, but not a terrible way to spend an evening. At least the décor was neutral here; soothing colours and shapes that reflected her thoughts without amplifying them. Perhaps she might even start to get excited about the show.

The Sulkatorium. Applejack had a name for every room in the boutique, and acknowledging that fact turned the air around her into thick glue. She was everywhere here now, and if any further proof of that was needed then the box could provide it.

It was still there from the night before: six sides of an arrogant challenge that she hadn’t yet been brave enough to take on. It sat on the side table as if it had always belonged there—belonged there more than Rarity herself, perhaps.

Her eyes narrowed as she stretched out across the chaise lounge; a glass was filled and brought to her lips so she could take a long draught of liquid confidence. A second glass followed, and she finally felt ready to begin.

The box levitated to the floor in front of her. It was a plain thing—an ugly, rough old thing, truth be told. It was desperately in need of some upcycling—a smattering of aquamarines perhaps—but Rarity had long been forbidden from altering it. She couldn’t remember whether it was a decision she had come to herself, or something she had agreed with Applejack, but Rarity was good to her word, no matter how much at times she wished she wasn’t.

The lid shimmered in an azure glow, and the box relinquished its contents. Rarity held the first item at eye level, and turned it this way and that as she scrutinised it.

It was a strange thing to keep, really, but it had marked the first occasion Applejack had accompanied her on one of her gemstone gathering expeditions. She couldn’t stop a smile rising to her lips as she remembered how long Spike had sulked for when he realised he had been temporarily replaced, and how many gemstones it had taken to convince him he was still her favourite gem-digging Spikey-wikey.

She had been so proud of her horn that day. The tickling vibrations had started when they had still been over a mile away from the source, and gradually it lit up as though Celestia herself had embraced it and raised it into the sky. The gemstones had been encased within a vast finger of stone, which had been largely resistant to her attempts with the pickaxe. Applejack had watched quietly for a moment, before offering to help.

By Equestria, her legs are strong; she had managed to crack it with only the second buck, and by the fourth attempt the rock had split open to reveal rigid rivers of gemstones. They had joked afterwards that Applejack had only managed to do it because Rarity had weakened it significantly, and the memory of their laughter still made her smile.

She turned the fragment around one last time before depositing it back into the box. At the time, it had been a symbol of just how much she appreciated Applejack’s talents. Now, in the silence of the boutique, it reminded her simply of how much her own achievement that day had been muted.

Other items emerged in sequence. The official Apple Family Associate card lovingly handmade by Apple Bloom; the dinner tickets to the Dainty Hooves gala cruise Applejack had saved months for; the photograph from their first official date, when Applejack had presented herself on Rarity’s doorstep in the most enchanting ensemble and with her hair held in deceptively complex woven braids.

They fell back into the box like heavy raindrops. Taken separately, they were each delightful souvenirs. Taken all as one, they comprised an invasion.

You complain Rarity, but what exactly have you done for Applejack? Do you think she’s got enough trinkets from you to fill a box with?

Rarity exhaled glass, and soothed her throat with more sangiovese. That was the problem with such neutral décor. Sometimes it reflected ones thoughts a little too strongly.

The orator ascended the stage somewhat apprehensively; nearly every hoofstep echoed her diminishing confidence; nearly every agitated flick of the tail demanded the silence of her audience. That would be if her audience wasn’t blissfully unaware of the imminent rendition of the common folk tale, and instead was shovelling hooffuls of popped corn and cake into her mouth.

The orator stamped her hooves tentatively as she recounted the true story of the legendary knight Dashing Sword and the beautiful princess Fragile Feathers. Oh, how she captured the very essence of the princess; a feisty adventuress looking for the lost treasure of her ancestors, and who travelled from remote island to remote island in her quest. Carved just as accurately from her words was Dashing Sword, the brave and honest (former) pirate blackmailed into joining her. The orator recounted perfectly their encounters with cannibalistic tribes, vengeful spirits and even that one adventure where Fragile Feathers (it was an ironic name) entered into an international speed-flying competition and won. At the climax of their journey, Dashing Sword and Fragile Feathers had realised they had fallen in love, but purely in a platonic way, you understand; none of that kissing and cuddling stuff that usually comes with such a relationship.

The orator stood with forelegs by her side, and awaited the inevitable silence. She was not, therefore, surprised to see a confused frown on the face of the audience. ‘I don’t get it,’ came the review. ‘Why didn’t they throw a super-huge we-finally-found-the-treasure-at-last-so-nyah party?’

The bakery grew silent; the orator’s eyes twitched.

Like on so many other occasions, Twilight Sparkle was absolutely, positively, unquestionably right. There was always an overwhelming inevitability about her wisdom; no matter how much the recipient primped and preened it to look like something it wasn’t, in the end it just couldn’t be refuted. And Rarity was old enough now to know better than to try.

That wasn’t the problem with Twilight’s advice though.

The walk to Sweet Apple Acres passed through oceans of treacle, glue and jelly. Her lungs felt traitorous and her heart grew weak, but Rarity knew she couldn’t run from it anymore.

It just wasn’t going to work out between them—not like this.

For a while she had been content to indulge herself in the notion that it was all Applejack. Applejack the dashing; Applejack the courteous and selfless; Applejack the knotweed that snuck into your garden and grew and grew until all the delicate flowers and herbs already there had been strangled and suffocated. It had been easy to do—she had done it with damaged dresses and suits so many times before. Just sew the frayed edges back together or apply a simple patch.

But sometimes that just wasn’t enough. The frayed material would continue to part beyond the influence of the thread, and the patch just looked wrong under certain lights.

No. This was all on her, and her alone. She had been sabotaging her own happy ever after for far too long, and now she needed to find some sort of resolution.

She reached the shadow of the farmhouse as the sun was disappearing behind the orchard, and just as Applejack was returning herself. As Rarity’s pace slowed, she observed how dusty and tired her marefriend looked, and doubt began to clutch at her heart. Perhaps there was a more proper time to do this?

But then Applejack looked across and met her gaze, and Rarity realised that the smile on her marefriend’s lips meant that even if there was a more proper time, she no longer had the option of waiting for it.

She opened her mouth to speak when suddenly the door of the farmhouse flew open, and Apple Bloom bounced out into the cool, dusky air. “Welcome back AJ,” she cried, throwing her hooves around her sister, before following her gaze. “Rarity! Are ya staying the night again? Is Sweetie Belle with you?”

A tickle crept up Rarity’s throat. “Ah, no, not tonight dear I’m afraid,” she managed to say. “Actually, I just stopped by to speak to Applejack. Um…alone.”

Oh how she wished she hadn’t seen the pensive looks that briefly crossed their faces. Apple Bloom’s expression suggested she had picked up on the tone, if not the context. Applejack nuzzled her. “Go on AB, go get ready f’school tomorrow, and I’ll come tuck you in in a bit.”

As the little filly reluctantly closed the door, Rarity sat herself down heavily on the porch and motioned for Applejack to join her. That was the problem with Twilight’s advice—it was always about what needed to be done, not how you actually did it. Rarity’s gaze fell on the hazy clouds bruising the horizon. The weather ponies were steering a storm their way.

How very appropriate.

The orator ascended the stage reluctantly; every hoofstep echoed her desire to not be up there; every agitated flick of the tail demanded her audience put her out of her misery before she even began. It made it worse that said audience was sat attentively at a table—an assortment of paper and pens (for the making of notes, she was assured) before her.

She tapped her hooves nervously as she recounted the true story of the legendary knight Dashing Sword and the beautiful princess Fragile Feathers. Oh, how she captured the very essence of the princess; a feisty adventuress looking for the lost treasure of her ancestors, and who travelled from island to island in her quest. Carved just as accurately from her words was Dashing Sword, the brave and honest (former) pirate who was blackmailed into joining her. The orator recounted hesitantly their encounters with cannibalistic tribes, vengeful spirits and even that one adventure where Fragile Feathers (it was an ironic name) entered into an international speed-flying competition and won. At the climax of their journey, Dashing Sword and Fragile Feathers had realised they had fallen in love, but purely in a platonic way, you understand, with none of the kissing and cuddling that usually comes with such a relationship. Oh, and they also had a party, because that was what was apparently done.

The orator stood with a bowed head, and awaited the inevitable silence. She was not, therefore, surprised to see a confused frown on the face of the audience. ‘Well it was certainly interesting, if a little lowbrow,’ came the review. ‘But thematically, as a fairy tale? I’m sorry to say it was all a bit of a mess.”

The library became even more silent, as the audience teleported a book onto her table.

‘I thought you were recounting a fairy tale,’ she said. ‘So I read up on Frills Took the Worldly’s analysis of common folk stories (I mean, there are plenty of others, but his is the most—she rolled the word almost sensually—empirical), and the comparison isn’t all that favourable. For a start, at least half of the actants Took theorises in his morphology aren’t present; you didn’t have a dispatcher—the one who sends the hero or heroine on their quest in the first place; nor the magical helpers—there’s usually three as a rule; nor the donor—who is the one who ultimately gives the hero/heroine the advice and wisdom they need to conclude their journey.’

The orator winced. She told the audience that she understood, but the audience didn’t appear to be listening.

‘And when we get to the functions that Took typically identified in the tales he analysed, there was no guidance, struggle, branding, transfiguration or even a wedding in your version. Your protagonists don’t realise how they need to change to overcome the obstacles they face—they just… do.’

The orator slumped, and weakly told the audience that she had heard enough. That was when the audience paused, and cocked her head in confusion.

‘But what I don’t understand is why you were trying to rewrite Dashing Sword and Fragile Feathers in the first place.’

The orator explained her intense distaste of the fairy tale; that she found it demeaning and suppressive of her gender.

The audience nodded, a sad smile forming on her face. ‘Did you know,’ she replied, ‘that one of the reasons why fairy tales are so important and popular is because of their adaptability? You can take any tale, and a pony will interpret it based upon their own life experiences, and draw meaning from it.’

The orator had not known that. And then she understood.

Heavy rain had always been a source of comfort and soothing for Rarity. Ever since she was a filly, she had found something immensely calming about the dancing patter; the cleansing aroma and how it brought a neutrality to everything.

And right now her heart desperately needed calming.

The penknife was surrounded in azure light as it gently twisted left, and then right—delicately prising small stones and dirt from the horseshoe.

Applejack coughed without really needing to and Rarity smiled. She had been with her marefriend long enough to know the ways her nerves manifested.

“You, uh… you don’t need t’do that you know. Matter o’fact Rares, why are you doing it?”

Rarity looked across at Applejack, lying prone on the porch as her hooves were being worked on. Those strong legs looked tense and vulnerable.

“Relax, darling, or else you’ll get cramp again,” she replied. “In part, because I wanted to, I guess. But I was also hoping to find an answer to a question I’ve been having of late.”

“Right; an answer. Gotcha.” Applejack’s leg trembled as Rarity worked. “So, uh, did you find it?”

Rarity set aside the knife and nodded in satisfaction. She watched the rain melt the orchard and inhaled the musky scent of damp soil. For the first time in months her mind felt clear and focused.

“There’s a story,” she began. “The story of a princess who prided herself on her independence. One day she fell for a dashing knight—a pony who would do absolutely anything for her, out of love. And the princess let the knight do this for many years. But soon she began to realise she was unhappy, because she had gradually allowed feelings of flattery turn into feelings of expectation—and she began to take that brave knight for granted. She realised she had lost her independence, her strength of character, and she blamed the knight for it. And yet, at the same time, she realised she was scared of claiming it back—that the act of doing so would forever ruin her relationship with the knight.”

Applejack’s brow had creased into a curious frown. “Okay…”

Rarity swallowed. “Well, for arguments sake, let’s say the princess is me, and the dashing knight is… you.”

She loved a great many things in life, but utterly adored few. One of those was Applejack’s way of working things out in her head. Her beautiful green eyes would lose their focus, her jaw would start working and she would usually stare at some distant point in the horizon for a minute or two before realisation would illuminate her features. The whole process was utterly captivating, and Rarity could sit and watch it every moment of every day.

A wary look gradually formed on her marefriend’s face. Before she could speak though, Rarity opened her mouth. It would have been nice to have had something prepared, but impulses were impulses, and this was important.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know. It’s my fault entirely.” She ran a hoof through her mane, and watched puddles creep out from the soil beyond the porch. “I was flattered—you have no idea how truly wonderful you really are, Applejack, and I feel simply horrendous for my part in all of this. I guess I became complicit in the building of my own oubliette. Please know though that you did bring my fillyhood fairy tale to life, for a while at least. In the end though it just isn’t me, and things simply cannot continue on like this.”

“Okay…” Applejack chewed out the word, as though she was reluctant to let it leave her mouth. “So, uh, what do you want to do then?”

What indeed. Rarity locked eyes with her marefriend for a few seconds; that something she could nurture was still there; that something she could help grow and become strong. Like she was watching it on some other pony’s face, she was aware of her expression becoming playful—dominant, even. Perhaps it was time to take back some of the control she had given away.

“Well, darling, to start with you can tell me roughly when applebucking season begins. Oh, and your Zap Apple harvest too, for that matter. I need to diarise.”

Applejack blinked slowly. “Diarise?”

“I cannot simply drop everything and come running when there’s a harvesting emergency, Applejack,” Rarity replied firmly, though there was no frustration in her voice. “We busy ponies live and die by our diaries, and we must stay true to them—particularly when such appointments will take me from the world of fashion for weeks at a time. Secondly, you can make sure you keep the weekend after next free. I’ve bought us tickets for the annual Baltimare rodeo.”

She watched Applejack’s jaw clench and unclench. “But you hate rodeos, sugarcube.”

“And you love them.” Rarity rose to her hooves, enjoying the sensation of taking the lead. “And I love you. Finally, you can pack a saddlebag—I want you to stay at mine tonight.”

Applejack’s eyes had barely left Rarity all evening, but now they looked away across the orchard, taking in the rain; the heavy wind; the streams of thick mud. Then a smile broke, one that was as bright and glorious as the morning sun.

“Sure thing, sugarcube. That sounds dandy.”

Rarity felt her pulse quicken at those words. It threatened to sabotage her rediscovered assertiveness, so she quickly forged on.

“I recommend a large one,” she said, forcing her voice to sound breezy and carefree. “I’m expecting you to stay.”

Applejack swallowed then, and her wide eyes moved quickly to Rarity, and then to the farmhouse. They shimmered in the dusky light as they returned again to Rarity, and she rose to her hooves.

“Rarity, I… I love you,” she scuffed a hoof against the porch. “You know I do but, but… I’ve got responsibilities here. You know I can’t just up and leave.”

Rarity felt a smile break out across her face—the first genuine one she had had in months. Granted, things might have been different had she not already been expecting that specific response, but as she was she wasn’t overly thrown by the reluctant rejection.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not," she replied plainly. "I know you think you can’t, but I don’t feel any of your concerns are things that can’t be overcome.” She fixed Applejack with a stare. “Most of the wonderful things that we’ve experienced together have been instigated by you—but it’ll be a cold day in Tartarus the day I let you own them all. I’m going to duel this particular dragon for as long as it takes for you to leave your tower.”

Applejack blinked at the passion in her voice, but her expression remained unreadable for a few moments. Then she laughed. It was a raw bark, but to Rarity it felt like the warmest blanket on a cold winter’s night.

“So I’m the princess now, huh?”

Rarity shrugged casually. “For a time, perhaps. To be honest I think we’ll probably take turns with that particular role.”

Applejack thought about that and a smile crept across her face. “Guess that means we both get t’be the knight too then. Okay, sugarcube, I reckon you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Instinctively she spat on her hoof and held it out, then laughed at Rarity’s expression as she realised what she had done. That laugh faded into an appreciative silence when Rarity returned the gesture, and pushed their hooves firmly together.

“Princess Fragile Feathers gasped, for she could see that Dashing Sword was in trouble. Though the brave knight was so far holding his own against the fearsome dragon, it was plain to all that he was starting to tire.”

Rarity cast a quick sideways glance at Sweetie Belle before continuing. Her sister was lying with the same rapt expression she had been wearing since Rarity had started the tale.

“So, while the dragon was preoccupied, she fashioned her delicate, flaxen mane into a rope, and used it to descend to the ground. Then she challenged the dragon herself—distracting him long enough so that Dashing Sword was able to run him through with his lance. And in the aftermath of that titanic battle, they both realised how much they needed the other in their lives. And so they married, and both kingdoms gained a dashing knight, and both kingdoms gained a loving spouse.”

The orator looked down at the dispatcher of her own personal quest, and felt warmth spread across her chest. Gripping her duvet tightly, Sweetie Belle lay asleep with a broad smile upon her face.

And, as she heard the rich laughter of Applejack join that of her parents downstairs, Rarity sensed the smile on her own face was just as bright.

~Fin

Author's Notes:

Well, that ended up significantly longer than I originally planned it to be, but I had a lot of fun writing it and I'm happy with the added content and themes that hijacked the tale for the most part. First time I've really written these ponies in any real detail, so I'm hoping to improve on characterisation for next time. I particularly wanted to focus a little bit less on Rarity's more obvious dramatic elements, and more on her as an individual. Hopefully you enjoyed reading it though - why not leave a comment and let me know what you liked or didn't like about it. I'll be running an edit over the next day or two.

The work of Vladimir Propp in relation to fairy tales is incredibly interesting if you have an interest in the academic study of folklore. Frills Took the Worldly is a nod to this fine gentleman; Frills Took is an anagram of folklorist, and I chose 'worldly' as a nod to the different meanings of the name Vladimir (great/famous and peace/world).

I also now have the desire to write a tale or two involving the Rainbow Dash influenced Dashing Sword and Fragile Feathers setting. Oh my.

~Keep striding