The circular room is a condensed five meters in diameter. Though it is in one of the highest towers of the castle, as a former chandlery this stowage is spared of the regal decorations adorning the others. The interior walls are an unpainted brickwork where layers of masonry broke out of alignment. The low pressed ceiling hangs from it a lone oil-burning lantern, serving only to trap the scent of dry wax within the room's constricting ventilation. Boxes upon boxes of half-used candles are stacked on one corner, harnessed on the wall with cobwebs and puddles of some moldy green liquid oozing from the wall.

I sit on the foot of the bed–there are no chairs–admiring the pink flowery curtains. It is the sole furnishing in the room, an ironic touch considering that the window it drapes over is sealed with three metal bars. Beside me, still on the bed, lies a plate of untouched millet cereal, a banana, and a glass of distilled tap water.

There is a loud pounding on the door. I hear the wooden beams barring the entrance–or exit, as it may seem to me–creak and unlock out of place. The tinkling sound of keys and chains fiddle on the knob. How many locks they put there, I wonder, that it takes so much of their time just to unseal the door. It is as though the metal ring on my horn, hindering my magic, is insufficient enough to hold me in place.

A royal guard, an earth pony with black coat, barges in without the ceremony of a greeting.

"Hey!" he thunders, stomping into the room. "You need to eat your food or we'll have to throw you in the sweatbox."

I do not answer him. He marches to me and kicks the bed to take my attention. The bed moves; I do not.

"Hey!" he barks again. "Are you listening to me?"

I am not.

It is a week now since my wedding, a week since they have dragged me from the courtroom–with their corroded bangle and anklets–and into this makeshift cellar. The succeeding days passed by unnoticed, measured not in dawns and dusks but in the uneven intervals of guards throwing commoner's food on paper plate to my table. But it is only this morning, when I exhausted the last of my eyeshadow, that the slightest sense of urgency strikes me again.

"Would you like to fuck?" I ask the guard, it is the first words I have said in days.

"W-What?" he stammers. He has not misheard me.

"Y-You can, if you want," I assure him. "You and your friend over there... with me... In exchange I want you to get me some eyeshadow... and some face powder and some blush... and a proper comb."

I remember having to save using a plastic fork just to be able to use its teeth to fix my hair.

"...and maybe a cigarette," I follow up, before I forget.

I do not see what face the guard makes, as I am not looking at him. But I see his shadow, on the floor, shakes its head and turn away. I hear him throw back profanities at me, as though my suggestion is in itself an insult to his character. But perhaps it is to himself that he spits his cusswords; that is, at the temptation of the thought. It is a free lay, after all, with the small trivial price of cosmetics for a mare of my quality. He would have no doubt taken my invitation if not for the fact that the other guards are waiting for him to place his bet on their gaming table.

But in one sudden sweeping motion, he briskly turns back to me, kicks the tray, and launches the foodstuffs to my face. The wooden plate strikes my cheeks as the cold wet grain splashes all over me. I draw back, shrinking, on the floor and against the wall, with my hooves raised to cover my head and my eyes shut, my whole body shaking in terror. But, as I slowly open my eyes, I just him there, standing with that look. That look... which I have seen in all their eyes. Contempt in one eye and disgust for another, leaving no room for pity.

Still glaring at me, he spits on the floor. “Fucking slut…” he murmurs.

He walks out and shuts the door close. As he fumbles with the key to the lock, I hear him speak to his partner, unmindful whether I am to hear it or not:

"Can you believe that bitch actually offered to have sex in exchange for makeup." His voice, like his shadow, creeps from the doorsill.

His partner, an older stallion if I am to judge by the voice, responded with a hoarse laugh, "You didn't take up the offer, did you?"

"Do I look that desperate?"

The second batch of laughter is followed, and then accompanied, by the sound of rolling dice and coins. When the need for conversation that plays along with the game finally arise, I hear the older stallion say, "Kinda feel sorry for the bitch, don't you?"

"What?" responded a third voice. I did not know there are three guards now keeping watch of my cell.

"I don't feel sorry for her," responded the first guard. "Why? Do you? After what she did?"

"Maybe a little..." For a moment, I thought I heard the sound of a shrug. "She's kinda broken in the head."

"Kinda? Hell no. The shrink said she's mentally sane. She's just twisted and rotten to the core. I'd first stick my dick in a mincer than in somepony like her."

"Seriously?" asks the youngest among them.

"...No!"

The laughter that broke out from the three temporarily interrupts their conversation back into silence. But as the need to converse returns again, the second guard resumes:

"Look at this way," he says, "remember all those mares we picked in the bar last night? All of them are wearing makeup to get laid. This one's willing to get laid for some makeup. Now what the hell does that say?"

There is a long ensuing silence from outside the door. It seems as though they are seriously pondering the question. The silence is broken at the sound of a coin tinkling on the floor. Then the third voice said suddenly: "That she's a very cheap whore?"

Laughter bursts once more. The laughter and their voices fades away as the sound of shuffling cards and rolling bits takes the place of their conversation.

Once silence becomes my sole company, I am once more aware of where I am. I do not know why I cannot cry–this is justice, perhaps?–or think myself worthy of any other position than where I am in. Here, in this cell, caked with foodstuffs, frightful of the unhygienic stallion spit on the floor.

With my hoof, I wipe away the mess on my coat. I stand up, turning to the bed to fix the creases of the yellowing brown-white sheets. I pick up the mess on the floor, food and plate and all, and set everything to a decent arrangement on top of the cardboard boxes. I lie on the bed and force myself to a sleep that will not come.

"She can't possibly be in there?" A mare's voice comes from the other end of the barred door. I do not know if it is the words or the voice that wakes me up; nor do I know if I did wake up or had simply returned from the lethargic passivity of my consciousness.

"By Celestia's order," a guard answers, "I'm afraid she is."

"Please open the door," the voice insists.

"B-But we're not authorized to–"

"I am."

"Of course... Uh... Will you be taking responsibility, princess?"

"I will."

Before the door opens, the chains and beams clamor aloud. The guard on the other side does it to stir me awake, or to forewarn me to be on my best behavior for my visitor. I already know, and expect, to see Cadance on the other side.

She does not enter yet when the door opens–she means to–as she stops in horror to observe the cage in which I am contained. She gasps aloud, her hooves jumping to her lips, as she eyes my confinement. It is an exaggeration for her part. Surely there are worse places to imagine, but Cadance reacts as though I am secluded in a whorehouse or a torture chamber. Her expression of shock changes to that of horror the second she notices the unfashionable bracelets strangulating my tumefied hooves to a pale purplish red.

"Please take those cuffs off of her," she orders one of the guard.

The guards hesitates, if only to show his disapproval to the command. He walks to me, takes out the key ring, and unlocks my manacles loose. "You better not do anything funny," he mumbles, "or else..."

I barely hear the threat, which I would have ignored eventually, my focus concentrated only on Cadance.

"What is she doing in a place like this?" she asks to the commanding officer. "I told the guards to get her in a room."

"Well... when you said room," the youngest guard responded, eyeing his superiors for help, "we all thought you meant a prison room."

"Nevermind," she sighs. "Please talk to Seneschal and tell him to have one of the castle suites ready for Miss Rarity."

"A suite, princess?" the second guard asks. "For Miss Rarity?"

"Yes, a castle suite... the best one available."

The guard is quiet for quite some time. He turns to his subordinates, nods, and responds back to Cadance. "Very well, princess. Would you like a guard to keep you company during your visit?"

"That won't be necessary. Please leave Miss Rarity and I alone for now."

"But princess," one of the younger guards says, "considering what Miss Rarity has done just a week ago, we highly recommend that–"

"Please don't speak of Rarity as if she's not here," Cadance says, looking at me in the eyes for the first time. "And please leave now, I assure you that nothing will happen... to either of us. Otherwise, any more noncompliance will be duly noted and notified as insubordination to your superiors."

"Yes, princess!" the guards responded in unison, a bit too quickly. That this is the first time she has threatened to exercise her authority against her subjects surprises them into a security of abrupt and blind obedience rather than silence.

Once the guards have gone, Cadance finally enters the room. She unfolds her wings–fully bloomed of its feathers now–and unveils, from her sides, a small green box. She levitates the container on top of the table before standing in front of me.

"Do you mind if... I sit beside you?" she asks, trying to reflect a smile on me.

I do not respond.

She remains standing there, looking for a place to sit as she runs a hoof down her full pink mane. She finds no chairs inside. An idea strikes her and she goes outside for a few second, then returning with one of the guard's white deck chairs. She places it at the opposite end of the table and there sits.

"I..." she tries, but pauses to clear her throat. "I brought you something."

With her hooves, she removes the cover of the green box and takes out from it a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

"I-I brought us some glasses too."

With her magic this time, a pair of wine glasses floats from the box before she sets the container aside. She places all three items on the table.

"Cabernet is your favorite, isn't it? Remember?" she asks. She pries open the cork with her magic and begins to fill my glass. "I've aged two of these bottles myself for a year now... since the day of my wedding. The wine is still very young so it might not be as good as the ones we used to have. But I'm confident this tastes great since I got the grapes from Vintage Vine."

She lifts her glass to her lips and lets the liquid scarlet inside her throat. She takes two small gulps before putting down the glass again. She looks down on the wooden table, one hoof on her glass and the other around her bottle. She holds the bottle up to me but decides against it when I do not reach out. Placing the bottle down, Cadance forces a meek smile.

I look to the window outside. It is a bright sunny afternoon where the sun is at its highest. From the height of my cell, there is a clear unobstructed vista of the sky. Even the other towers of Canterlot erect short from touching upon the open canvas of my view. Here the sun is large ball of orange, glinting and shining in its brilliance, as it lay resting on an ocean-blue sky. It makes me feel as though I can simply extend my hoof outward and, upon doing, I may be able to touch the beacon of light. Perhaps–a fanciful thought even–to peel away its skin and taste to see of its sweet-sour citric flavor.

"To be honest..." she says, smiling, "I placed this bottle in my cellar the night we became best friends hoping that... in fifty or sixty years we'd be able to share the taste of friendship together. But I guess... It's very important to take a first few sips for now... because I'm afraid of what were to happen if I lose you."

And the clouds, too, is a bountiful blanket of pillows. White fluffs of cotton that lay afloat on the sky. They move slowly, drifting a mere inch a minute, towards beneath the sun. The rays shine upon them, polishing their color even more to a bright white. But not is not to say that the color underneath had grayed. Quite the contrary, for the sun which pierces through the cumulus had opened up a spotlight of luminance. I have read it is called ‘Angels Stairs’ as it is to this beams of purity where the seraphims descend to pay us humble ponies a visit.

"About your... trial..." she says, waiting to be slapped. When my hoof does not crash against her cheek, she continues, "I am... almost finished with the proceedings. I didn't press any charges and I was able to pay all your debt to the last bit. For the other... accusations... you will be glad to know that I was able to plead with Aunt Celestia to extenuate your punishment under grounds of your previous accomplishments as an Element of Harmony. It's not exactly an official mitigating circumstances by law but... you know..."

A small bird enters the open field, flying upwards as though to trace the arc of the sun beams. Then it spins around, trying to circle ray of light, it seems. Then the small flying creature, having seen a resting place from all its aerial aerobics, suddenly flies towards my cell window. It nears until I see it clearly. I am not well versed in the taxonomy of avian creatures and am not familiar with this particular species. It is a small brown bird with a red wing and a black tail feather. It perches just behind the curtains, between the two cylindrical prison bars.

"You are... currently stripped of your title as the Element of Generosity until further notice. It's only temporary, I promise; I made them promise. They'll give it back when... things quiet down a bit.

The bird and I stare at each for quite some time. It tilts its head from side to side in sudden erratic movements whenever it blinks. Its eyes are like two marble orbs of onyx, so crystal clear clear that I can see it reflect the entire room–and myself–on its pupils. Then the bird, having grown tired of me, turns away and, still perching on my window, starts pecking its beak on the cement.

"But for now they said we still have to keep you detained until... all the paperwork is completed," she says, in the tone of an apology. "It'll take a week or two, but I'm trying to push the process. B-But you don't have to worry, I won't make you wait in this place. If you haven't heard what I said to the guards, I'll have you transferred to one of the castle suites. That'll be a much better place, don't you think?"

I look up to her and, as I open my mouth, feeling the crusted numbness of my dry lips. "What is my supposed sentence?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"We... we don't have to speak of that."

"I'm speaking of it."

Cadance turns away and answers, "A fine of five million bits worth of damages in addition to six months to three years of exile from Equestria. Should you choose to come back, you will not be allowed to step foot in Canterlot ever again. And there’s... a restraining order to me and Shining Armor... But, again, please never mind all that! I paid your fine and I'm trying to make it so that you're not exiled–"

"Shut up."

“I… I’m sorry."

A gust of wind, swaying the curtains, disturb the silence. The bird is still there, wasting its life one peck at a time. Has it come here to enjoy my humiliation before Cadance?

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"...I think you know why."

"Don't expect any gratitude from me."

"That wasn't what I was talking about." Then she smiles. "But some gratitude would be nice." There is neither sarcasm nor demand in her tone. Her statement is both a request and a plea.

"You weren't supposed to save me," I hiss.

"I did."

"It was supposed to end for me that night." I glare at her. "I'd rather die than be saved by you!"

"Please don't say that..."

"It should have ended on my terms," I say, turning away. "Now what am I? A witch trapped in a princess-guarded castle."

Her eyes squints. Then, her eyes to me, she shakes her head. "I won't apologize for saving your life, Rarity."

"Why did you do it?"

She pauses for a moment, then says. "...Rarity, we live in a world where ponies don't ask each other that question."

"I'm asking it," I say. Without forethought, the following words comes out without hesitation. As though my question is but an innocent inquiry. "Does that disqualify me as one of your omnibenevolent subjects?"

Cadance does not answer. She must think it to be a rhetorical.

"I'm not the kind of princess you are, Cadence," I press on. "I don't trot through an enchanted forest, humming with the mockingbirds to call deers and rabbits to my side.”–I turn to the bird for a second–“But for that one night... that one night where I was at least able to fake it for real... even for a brief second..."

It seems the words themselves are strangling me. I stop, for a moment, when I realize that my voice is slowly turning to a high-pitched squeal.

"And your next step," I continue, collecting myself, "is to tell me that you'll forgive me."

"I... I already did."

"Oh," I groan, "your self-righteous vanity is intolerable."

"I do forgive you, Rarity. For both our sakes, and for the sake of our friendship."

She pauses, taking a deep breath. She rubs both her hooves together.

"You... You hurt me, Rarity. You really did. Right now, my son's in an incubator... fighting for his life. The doctors... they don't know whether he'll make it or not... He's so... so small. A-And he hasn't made a sound yet."

Her eyes are red, but no tears are coming from it. She must have exhausted all these past few days.

"I... I want you to know that now, while I still can, I forgive you for everything that you've done. You put me and my son in harm's way... but still... This is the hardest and most painful thing I've ever done in my life but,"–she breathes in, pulling back tears–"I do forgive you."

Cadance sniffs and wipes away a phantasmagoric tear from her eye. Then her smile finally appears, proud of accomplishing the arduous of task forgiving. She tries to laugh, but the air is only lifted from her side.

"Because I... I'm honestly convinced that you're not a bad pony, Rarity," she says, as though I have asked for her reason. "You're a good mare who just... just made the mistake of doing bad things."

"Do you honestly believe that, after all I've done?"

"Yes." She clears her throat. "I'm the princess of love. I know that... envy, hate, anger, revenge... all of it are such a waste of emotion."

"Even to those that deserve it?"

"I... I don't believe anypony can really deserve to be hated," she says, looking down to her glass and rubbing her hooves together. "The bad things we ponies do... We do it because we don't know that they're bad... or because we're scared... or because we want to protect something. Those things don't deserve hate. I... I think they deserve understanding, sympathy... and forgiveness."

The two of us remain silent for a long time. Where I expect her to speak, she only blinks as she stares in my eyes. Her purple irises are crystal clear now, made rounder by a small smile curving her cheeks. Despite the constant pauses in her sentences, her eyes has not once trembled.

A whole minute pass, with the wind brushing the curtains against the gray brick walls and that damnable bird chirping. Cadance finally notices it, and she extends her hoof. The bird flies inside and perches on to Cadance’s shoulder.

"Ha!" I shriek, cackling, "And I thought I was the only witch."

Cadance is unshaken. She says, "You will please kindly explain yourself."

"Quite," I answer, leaning back on the wall. "So this is your plan, huh? My underestimation of you surprises me. I didn't think you would be this cunning."

"Do you think I have some ulterior motive?"

"Every motive is ulterior, darling." I laugh again. "And the genius of yours lies in its subtlety and its patience. Alright, you forgive me. What happens next? It will be incredibly easy to dance your way from party to party, having cleansed your name from my slander. How easy would it be to say, 'Ah, yes, Miss Rarity did try to murder me but she couldn't. But I forgive her; after all, I am the all-compassionate all-merciful saint.' Then what? Having absolved me, I'll be invited to your parties as a sign of good faith. And you'll sit on your throne and hide your snicker as your guests point and laugh at me like the sideshow freak you've turned me to!"

Immediately, I grab the wine bottle by the neck and smash its bottom against the table. There is an explosion of red and shattered glass. The bird flies out the window. The liquids spread through the flat surface. Still holding to the bottle, I point the sharp jagged tip to the princess.

"Well, guess what!?" I scream in sounds no longer different to that of a foaming dribble of a drowning mare. "Your plan won't work because I don't accept your forgiveness! You think I’ll let you flaunt your moral superiority over me!? I don't regret anything that I did; and I'll do it again, damn you! It's not a lapse of judgement or... or some more confusion. I'm not a teenager delinquent yearning to be loved. I hope your son makes it out alive in the hospital because I swear by Discord that the day I get out of here I'll finish what I started! I'll kill you! Then I'll kill your son. Then I'll kill Shining Armor! Then I–"

The sharp jagged point of broken glass still pointed to her throat, Cadance leaps to her feet towards me. The chair behind her crashes backwards in the sudden movement, yet she herself has not lost her footing. I feel my weapon shaking in my hooves as she walks near to me. And for once–for this once–I see anger in Cadance's eyes. But it is not anger that is contemptuous. It is an anger that is also a plea, ultimately realized in the way she raised her hoof and, resolutely, slapped my face.

The echo of the slash of her hoof against my cheek resounds throughout the room's sudden silence. Then, tears in her eyes, she grabs me by shoulders and screams:

"Stop doing this to yourself!" she shouts, at the top of her voice, shaking me by my body to stir my soul awake. "You're my best friend! You're not some witch. All this time you were just hurt and confused. You wanted to belong in some place you don't. Because you're a lot better pony than this! You deserve someplace better. You don't belong among those self-flaunting elitist. You belong with us. This isn't you... This was never you! You're... You're a good pony, Rarity."

My foreleg comes down to my side, removing the sharp object now pressing against Cadance's chest. I let go of the bottle and it falls on the floor with one last clink. With my other hoof, I reach up and touch the swelling cheek Cadance struck. There is no pain, despite the hot stinging sensation. The burn is warm, tender, and heartfelt.

Yes, I don't belong to them, I admit, they belonged to me.

I do not know when or, more so, why do I start tearing up. Nothing in Cadance's action–even that slap–could have elicited a teardrop from my eyes. But perhaps, rather, it is in her words that affected me so: for her to still be able to say that I am 'a good pony'–after all I have done and everything I threaten to do–shows an optimism so beautiful that it cannot be anything else but naive...

...and so painfully mistaken.

"Your conscience misguides you, Cadance," I find myself saying. "We both know that I'm guilty, that I am beyond forgiveness. And, for this whole mess, the only mistake that I made is that I didn't succeed... Even now, If I have killed you, then I would not hesitate to throw my life away in order to steal yours. The only reason why I am sitting here–and you, there–is because I have failed."

"I refuse to believe you." Cadance shakes her head.

"Shining Armor did. He felt it, the second after he first had me... and that's why he kept coming back." I press my hooves against my chest. "Do you know why Shining Armor cheated on you?"

"I never thought it's my place to know."

"You're still so young, Cadance," I say, as a compliment, smiling a little. "Shining Armor went to me because he loved you so much. He loved you so much that he spared you the desecration of an act which he inflicted upon me. For him, you were too holy to be defiled by his touch. And in your place, he put me there. He pitied me. I was his lust, his weakness his temptation, his passion, his remorse, his sin, and his guilt. You were his love, his strength, his absolution, his hope, his promise, and his goddess. I have received from him nothing but his worst, and to you he has given nothing but the best of himself. You see, Shining Armor had me–all of me–but, not once, have I ever had him. Now, all that I am is the faults he poured into me."

She remains quiet for a time. Then, responds: "I still refused to believed it."

"That Shining Armor never loved me?"

"No. That you're beyond forgiveness."

"There are no more grounds for the alternative. Look back at the muck and broken spirits I have left behind and tell me if there has ever been a desire for me to right my wrongs."

She says, aloud, "If that's so, then why did you cry out for help?"

Cry out? I want to ask. I do not answer.

"You were already at the top," she explains. "You could've had everything you wanted. Why did you have to confess in front of the whole world and throw everything away if–"

"Get out of here, princess," I interrupt, calmly.

"No!" she shouts, eyes closed and shaking her head. "I... I heard it from you. Your wedding speech. Your confession. Your cry for help. I was there. If what you said about you being the witch is true then why did you do it?"

I turn away from her. There is no place to run. No place I can hide myself in, except in words:

"Do me one last act of kindness and get out. I don't care what happens anymore: believe whatever you want, set me free, leave me to starve, or send me to gallows; but just... just get out of here."

Several minutes of stillness pass, with neither of us saying a word. So long as I can see her shadow there on the wall, I refuse to turn and to speak. Then, a few minutes more, Cadance finally stands, with the chair she sits on clamoring beneath her movement. The shadow moves to the door but stops there, turning back one last time before vanishing completely.

But, as I turn, I find that small bird perching back on its window, watching me with blinking sympathetic eyes.

I pack the last of the dresses inside the suitcase, beside where what's left of my pitiful jewelry are bundled inside an étui. With my magic, I nudge the lid down and fasten the zipper close.

I look up, out the shattered window, at the first sound of a crowing rooster. It is not yet dawn, the sun has not yet come. The sky is a starless milky blue, awaiting the morningtide. There is not much time left, and I know I will have to leave now if I am to catch the first train out of Ponyville.

Turning back to the room, the pair of broken windows stared back at me like half-lidded eyes. Two black rocks remain on top the remains of glass, untouched and undisturbed. I walk out and lock my room close before descending to the store proper.

The shop is stripped of its clothing. What has not been sold has been given away. What was thrown back to my face was left to keep the house warm in the fireplace. Only the lifeless piles of mannequins remain. There, on the storefront behind broken mirrors, naked bodies of plastic lying on top of one another. And they glare at me, with their empty eyes, as though they know that I am the cause of their plight. I pay little attention to them, no more than I do to my house.

As I walk out of Carousel Boutique, I turn back to the building one last time. I remember Miss Carousel, the shop's previous owner before I had taken it over, telling me that beauty on the outside is beauty on the inside–it is by such premise that I have lived my years, thinking about it now–but the desecration the shop has suffered on its exterior outmatches what it contains within. Toilet papers run from the walls and over the roof's eaves. Half-burnt and termite-ridden plywood is barricaded along the windows by one or two rusty nails. And vandalisms of black paint spelled profanities such as 'witch', 'slut', and 'bitch' across the door. A new defacement, this time written in red paint, spells out 'Element of Whoring' around the overhang.

I stop for a few minutes too long, thinking whether I should put Miss Carousel's legacy out of its misery and just burn down the damn thing. Why ever not, I think, It is not as though I will return here in Ponyville. But as I begin to charge the fire spell, my better reason decides against it. I remember that, after everything that has happened, I of all ponies haven't the right to it.

Another alarm from the crowing rooster and I turn south, towards the train station. What a strange insulting coincidence that any of the shorter path I take will lead me straight to the houses of those who once believed me to their friend.

Nevertheless, I go on, cutting straight to the heart of the town. I run across the early risers, salesponies and the like. As soon as they see me, the hum of silence spread among them like a reverberating echo of a preemptive hush. Then the turbulence follows shortly, seconds after I have passed by some. I hear them, whispering aloud: "It's her, isn't it?" "How dare she show her face out in the open like this!" "Now my morning is ruined." "She tried to kill the princess of love... of love! What kind of pony does that!?" "Not even Discord resorted to murder."

Then, I realize, that Fluttershy is among them. Unlike the others she is not speaking ill of me. She just stands there, saddlebag on her side, falling in line for Carrot Top's merchandise. We lock eyes for a moment as I pass by her. She knows, I trust, that with the luggage I am carrying, I no longer intend to return here in Ponyville. Still, she says nothing, not even a goodbye for old time's sake. She shuts her eyes and turns away, hoping I will be gone when she next opens them again.

With my head held up high, I expect somepony to throw a tomato at me. Perhaps that will get Fluttershy's attention. But nothing comes. Why not, I wonder, surely if the delinquents can spare paint on my house then they, at least, can spare a fruit or a vegetable to the local murderess.

Passing by Twilight's treehouse, the first rays of the sun break from the horizon and begin to awaken more pony than I would like. The door of the library is thrown open and I am reminded that not all residents of Ponyville are ponies.

Spike marches out the door, hauling a large black garbage bag. He sees me standing by the side and he stops as I do. Slowly, his cute groggy morning face turns to a wrinkling glower. I hold the anger in his eyes as he heaves the bag and hurls it to the trash heap. He turns back to the house and stomps the ground on his way back. But before he returns inside, he stops again. Clutching the door with one claw and pointing at me with the other, Spikey-Wikey puffs his chest, wipes the tears in his eyes, and yells out: "I'm sorry for myself that I even had a crush on you!"

He jumps back into the library.

From inside the building, I can hear Twilight react to the commotion: "Spike, what happened? Why are you crying? ...No, you're crying. You're definitely crying."

I do not wait for Twilight to come out. I head straight to the train station.

The terminal in the early morning is filled with dawn. But the stretch of orange is cut to a divide across the mauve heavens, the pivotal second in which both Celestia and Luna holds the same power. To the east, the sun inches further to the sky by the second. To the west, the remnant of the night blooms with its twinkling stars.

The cool mist is still damp to the touch of my coat. Even as I enter the station,

"One ticket," I say, once I am in front of the ticket booth.

The booking clerk stares at me for quite some time before shaking his head. "Where to?" he sighs. "...End of the line, we hope."

"Yes, dear," I respond, tossing some bits on the plate. "End of the line."

I receive my ticket. The dispatcher and the local brakepony are the only other ponies in the station; on any other day in the past, they would have been enthusiastic to help me with my luggage. Now they merely exchange a few words between themselves–and with the booking clerk once I am past the gate–to leave me to attend to my belongings.

I hop on to the platform and look at the wall clock hanging on the wall. I am earlier than I expected. If the schedule is unchanged, Ponyville is the first stop from the rail yard and the first train of the day is the pullman coach nopony in this town can afford to ride. In ten minutes, I expect the carriage to be here and take me someplace else.

The only thing to do now is wait, and pretend that I do not notice she is here beside me.

"Rarity," she says. "Ah reckon she was right when she told me ya'd be here."

And standing there before me, her sun-streaked coat blazing like orange fire under the dawn, her glistering mane a waterfall of gold, her hat tipped, emerald eyes brilliant, is dear and dearest Applejack. She is no longer the weeping heartbroken filly I have hurt, nor is she the panic-stricken suicidal who jumped after me in desperation. No, this is she of my mind made real, my idealization of her concretized. A pony incapable of standing idly by or moving irrationally. Applejack, as I have always loved her: stubborn, beautiful, gentle, and powerful more than anything else.

In another life, it might suffice to say that if this is the first time we have met, then I would have fallen in love with her this instant.

Maybe right now, I think, searching for my feelings, I am falling in love all over again.

"Good mornin', hun," she says, in that thick familiar accent I have grown to adore.

"Good morning,"–And I find myself unable to pause, and helpless against the invisible force of the past, to speak of another word for her but–"dearest."

What are you doing here? I feel the need to ask. How did you know where I am? The questions does not come in surges of panic, but of mild curiosity. I do not care for the answers to these questions now. What will you do? is what clouds my mind.

"You're uh... set to go, huh?" she says, glancing at my luggage.

I nod.

"Permanently?"

I nod again.

"You... got some bits saved?"

"...Some."

"Got any place where ya can stay?"

"I'll find one."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

We remain quiet for some time, with Applejack eyeing me and I, unable to look at her, prodding on the wooden boards with the end of my hoof. Right now, I feel an inexplicable and unjustified indignation towards her, even more than I did for Cadance. Of her being here–of her simply existing–with me knowing that any and all emotion I may ever have again will only be invested in her. There is nothing more that I want, and not want, than for her to vanish this instant before my eyes.

"Ya don't have to go, ya know," she says. "Cadance already bailed ya out and yer already back here in Ponyville. Ya can start fresh and all."

I remain silent, indifferent to the technicalities.

Knowing that the words had no effect on me, Applejack tries again: "Rare, what if ah tell ya that ah want ya back?"

And to this, I have to answer, "You have no reason to want somepony like me back."

"Ah have every reason. Want me to tell you each one of'em?"

"No," I respond. "Rather, I want you to tell me why did you bother to come here."

"Ah came here to tell ya that ya ain't goin' on that train."

"No?"

"No!" she shouts, making a step forward. "Not while ah'm here to stop ya."

"What do you plan to do?" I cock my head. "Get your lasso, tie me up, and rein me back to Sweet Apple Acres? No, Applejack, you won't. And unless you do, there is no way you can stop me from leaving."

"Ah ain't gonna do nothin' like that," she sighs. "But ah will if ah have to. Ah've heard it said that 'if ya really love somethin' then it's best to let it go,' but that that's the biggest rubbish ah ever heard cuz if ya really love somethin' then ya'd do everythin' ya can to take it. And Rarity–"

"Stop. Just Stop!"

"–ah love ya... Ah love ya so much."

Regardless of what it is that I feel, I cannot bring it to myself to return the words she wishes to hear. "Don't say that,” I whisper. “Just... please, don't."

"Ah'm the Element of Honesty, Rare, ah can't lie about somethin' this important. Neither ah can just shut up 'bout it."

"You... You don't even know who I am."

"You're Rarity. You're my Rarity."

"My real name is Lapis Lazuli," I say. I see, suddenly, a flashing image of a little filly dancing in front of a basement mirror, wearing nothing but a ragged canopy for a dress and a cardboard box for a tiara. "Rarity is a fake... an imitation... a rhinestone."

"You're one and the same pony, and ya ain't a fake. And what we had wasn't fake."

"How can you be so sure, Applejack?" I snap. "How do you know I'm just using you no differently than how I used the others?

"Then just tell me!" she yells. "Tell me right now that all those sweet days we had together was fake and ah'll leave ya alone. Just tell me that you didn't love me for real and ah'll let ya go. C'mon, say it! Ah dare ya."

I cannot speak another word. The unwanted memories knocks on the threshold of my mind. The sunny mornings made brighter each time we wake up to each other's smile. Our afternoons spent in parks and in picnics and in each other's embrace. Our nights together where we giggle at our playful frolics. Can I lie to myself and to Applejack that all those smiles and laugher and kisses are unreal? I ask myself. Can I get away with denying something so evident, so manifest? No. I cannot deny it.

"See, Rarity?" she says, responding to my thoughts. She smiles. "You did love me."

"I... I still do," I confess. "I love you more than anything."

She gasps, her eyes sparkling, "So that means we–"

"It means nothing, Applejack." I respond immediately, undercutting what hope she has. "My love means nothing."

She gnarls, and stomps both her forehooves on the floor. "How can it not mean anythin'? We love each other, that's all that should matter."

"You misunderstand me, dearest." I say. "I love you, but I do not want you to love me."

"You're lying."

"I am."

"Then why do ya have to say somethin' like that?"

"Because you're young, you're naive, and you're stupid."

Applejack is unshaken. The insults, coming from somepony like me, sounds more of a compliment than a smear.

"How old are you, dearest?"

"Ah'm twenty-two."

"Quite forgivable," I sigh. "You'll outgrow these immature notions of quixotic romanticism. Well, as for me, I'll be thirty-six in two months. Thirty-six, I'm already pushing forty. So I have been there in the young foalish age of twenty-two. I know what you're feeling, Applejack. I've felt it long ago. You feel so young, so powerful, so full of energy that you can fight and win against what behemoths and juggernauts the universe throws at you; the world is your oyster. It seems so pure and beautiful now, isn't it? Devoting your life to the cause of your true love that society at large has rebuked. 'Two against the world,' you'd like to say to yourself. But do you know what will follow after that? Years of enduring the consequences of your youth's impracticality? Years of a lost cause? Do you know how many days are there in twenty years? Do you know how long and what happens in those days?"

"You don't want to speak of that."

"No," I breathe out. "I don't want to speak of that, but I will. So let us do say that you take me back and let us do say that I do go with you. Alright, happily-ever-after, scream yeehaw, and ride off to the sunset. But what happens then? Well, first and foremost, you'll probably have to take me in as I am severed of what connections my work has given me. Carousel Boutique has lost its reputation, I am penniless, and in debt. There will be days when you'll have a fight with Granny Smith, for having another mouth to feed. Not to mention that this mouth can only ever spill lies and slander. Alright, you can laugh at that. But then what would Rainbow Dash say? Or Twilight? Or Fluttershy? Do you think anyone of them will approve of me for you? Then what about the other ponies of Ponyville? Do you think they'll forgive you for harboring a murderess!? You'll be hated and despised. Rumors will appear, one by one, about you being my conspirator, about the whole Apple family being in on it. There will be days when you'll bear standing behind the apple stand as each passing customer snort and glare at you. You'll coax them to buy the fruits of your labor, and nopony will even spare you a passing glance. They'll say that they have no bits or... or that they've lost the taste for the fruit lately. But that's not what you'll hear! You'll hear them say that you're a cuckold! A dense wittol to a gold digger! Then you'll go back to the barn, dragging a whole cart of unsold half-rotting apples. And none of your family will saying anything–they've already said all there is to say–and they know who to blame! They know! What will happen to Sweet Apple Acres then? What will happen to Apple Bloom, to Big Macintosh, and to Granny Smith? And all for what? For my sake?"

Applejack remains there, unmoved.

"Not enough?" I ask. "Very well then! So one day ten years from now you'll wake up with an old forty-six year-old mare beside your bed. Her beauty has gone, her charm has gone, and whatever it is that you fell in love with is trapped inside an old wrinkling carapace. That oh-so-magical feeling of love you have in your youth has abandoned and betrayed you. Every morning you'll force yourself out of bed and make breakfast, but we both know that's just an excuse because all you really want is to stay as far away from me as possible. You can't stomach looking at me anymore: my coat has lost its luster and my wrinkles are showing since we can't afford that expensive brand of make-up I've been nagging you to buy for days. Then while you're breaking your bones at work, you'll drown yourself in rationalizations that I'm not trying to seduce your brother like I already did with half the stallions in town. And later that night you'll have a fight in your nightly bar because you heard somepony say that I'm the town slut. And you'll get angry, teeth-gnashing angry, and not because you heard a lie, but because you heard what truth you've been trying not to say. Then one day you'll find a young and lovely pony you've taken a fancy to, and you'll... you'll take her to your bed and embrace. And before you feel shame, you felt the satisfaction of release and reward, because you know you owe yourself that much at least after torturous years of putting up with me. And when you go home, you'll confess the deed–proud of it, even!–because you're still honest. And then what will I do? I'll scream! I'll tear my mane out! I'll bitch about it for hours. And we both know I haven't have the right to after what I did all those years in the past: fucking Shining Armor behind your back. Then later that night, when we lie together in bed, our backs turned to each other, you'll hear me sob and cry and you'll do nothing about it. You'll lie there, awake, haunted by thoughts of what irredeemable sin have you committed that you deserved to have lived a life like this. And there–right there, Applejack!–that will be our future! That's what in store for you. Now, do you still want it!?"

When I tore away the tears from my eyes, my vision clears and I am once again returned from the world of my morbid imaginings to the train station. Applejack is still there, silent.

A small rumbling sound makes it way behind me, followed by a loud blast of a horn. From where the sun drags itself arose, the train arrives, screeching beside the long platform, its long steel scales brown with rusts. It then comes to a halt, maw opening before me. There is nopony who got off. It is waiting; and it will wait there for the few eternal, and decisive, minutes to come.

And with all the earnest sincerity, the seriousness, and the honesty one can muster, against the premonition, the warning, and the risk of losing everything else, Applejack answers: "If it means we'll be together... then Yes. That what ah want."

And what more can I say to a devotion of love of that kind? No words can convince her otherwise. No words can stray her from the only path to me. What remains now is for myself not to be convinced. It becomes apparent then that neither of us will yield our love to the other.

"You... You know I can't let you do that to yourself, dearest," I choke out. "Just... forget about me. Go live the rest of your life here in Ponyville and find yourself a young colt or filly who'll make you happy."

"What in tarnation' do ya think ah'm doin'?" she asks, tilting her head.

The locomotive churns its engine; its thick white fumes hisses out of its belly, beckoning me.

"Rare," she says, almost pleading now. "Yer not the only one here who's dreamin' of a happily-ever-after. And ah promise what ah want for us won't be just a dream."

"Don't make promises... you can't keep."

"Ah can keep this one," she says, stepping forward. "Because ah know you will too, right? Right? Ah know the look on somepony's eye when they're so full of regret that the only thing they want is to make up for it. And you want to, don't ya? ...Ah think ah know why ya did those things, hun. Ya did those thing cuz ya knew ya only have one life to live, and if it's only life then ya'd do anything to make sure it's the best goddarn life possible. But that ain't what happened, because yer wrong. Yer wrong to think that ya ain't got another shot at life, because here ah am goin' to give it to ya."

"I... I can't," I say. "Somepony who did something that evil doesn't deserve another chance at life."

"Ya gave me one, remember? Almost a year ago, when ah forced mahself on ya. And ah did right with the second chance ya gave me to love ya back, didn't I? Now ah'm givin' ya yer chance to prove that you're a good pony–a great pony. And if ya have to spend the rest of yer life trying to amend what wrong you've done in the past then... then ah'll be there for ya! Ah'll be there for ya all the way! Because ah love ya that much, Rarity. Because yer worth the years of struggle. And if nopony approve of us then... then to hell with'em. Ah'll fight for the both of us. Ah'll prove'em wrong... Ah just... ah want ya, Rarity."–she steps forward, hooves open to welcome me back in her embrace–"Ah want ya to be a part of mah life. If ah let go of you now... ah'd be lettin' go of mah own happy endin'."

Applejack is not crying. She looks as though she is. And around the silence, the constant churn of the train's engine thrives.

There are no words from me, nor any action to pass off as a response.

She marches towards me, closing the distance between us.

"Stay back," I say. "Don't come any closer."

As I try to shield myself with my hooves, she takes them in her own. She pulls me, our bodies slamming together that I feel the heat of her chest. Then she does something she swore she will never do again: She cups my neck, and forces her lips against my unwilling own.

I try to squirm away from the warmth of her hold, of the gentleness of her kiss; I want to–but I just can't. I find myself once again in that trance of tranquility, that stillness of solemnity, that only the security of love–of true love–can provide. That the pursuit of one's longing is all true and honest and without risk. To love somepony like Applejack, and be loved back, is that all which everyone yearns for. That this is the true fairy tale happily-ever-after I, and every youth, lady, princess, and witch, have always sought.

And what more can any mare want–and should want–than this?

The engine hisses again, the torque unlocks, the gears stir the wheelwork alive, and the train slowly drags its mighty head along the infinite track towards the endless horizon.

Applejack pulls back from our kiss; she sees the etched smile on my lips.

I know now–am sure!–of what is to be done.

"Rarity?" she asks, seeing the newfound resolution in my eyes.

I take a deep breath, and answer: "Yes, dearest! I want to be by your side again. Please, take me with you!"

Applejack smiles from ear to ear, she jumps and wraps her hooves around me. "Thank you, hun! What ya said... It means the world to me."

"Well... yes. Thank you too."

"We'll live happy together now wouldn't we?"

"Yes," I reply, "we will. But... can we continue this back to your house."

"Our house. It'll be ours from now on. And if Granny says otherwise, I'll build us our own-"

"Yes, yes. I'll like that... very much. But for now... can you please help me with my luggage?"

"Sure thing," she says, laughing. "No problem, hun."

She trots to my baggage and heaves all the bags to her back. But just then, the morning gust sweeps through the station and Applejack's Stetson is blown from her head.

She raises her hoof, trying to reach for the hat, only to miss the precious article by mere inches.

"Consarn it," she mutters. "I got it," she said, placing my luggage down.

She runs after the Stetson, which suspends above her in the air. The wind carries her hat to the roof, hanging it above a water shoot. I watch her jump, trying to reach for it, but the playful wind seems to match the rhythm of her movement, dangling the hat every time she is about to reach for it. Frustrated, she climbs on a nearby crate and jumps, finally catching her beloved accessory in her hooves.

But only then, and just then, has Applejack's immediate expression turns from annoyance to shock, and finally to horror. Because she realizes then that it is not the wind that distracts and strays her from me, but my magic.

When Applejack turns back to me, I am already looking back at her from the moving train.

I'm sorry, Applejack.

She jumps from the platform, tossing her hat aside, and darts through the railroad. She is screaming something. I cannot hear it amidst the train's churn.

I'm sorry for this one last lie.

She is crying already, tears streaming down her eyes. She picks up speed, but her blurred vision, and her clumsy hysterics, made her trip on the track. She lands and hits her muzzle on the dirt. But the pain does not stop her. I do not even know she can feel it. She forces her buckling legs up and sprints again towards me.

After all the evil things I did, I can't be rewarded with your love.

But there is already too much distance between us. Just when Applejack's speed makes it seem she can catch the train, the locomotive accelerates and stretches the distance between us.

"Don’t leave me!" she shouts, at the top of her voice. "Rarity!"

And after all the good things you have done, you can't be punished by loving me.

Applejack gallops faster and faster but the train is just too fast. Slowly the distance between us inches further apart, as how it should have been from the beginning. I cannot see her face anymore, the dot of orange shrinks by the second as the train reaches its full speed, until it is gone forever.

Nothing is left there on the horizon but the tracks leading back to the infinite. Somewhere there a poor little mare had better stop chasing now; I know not even she can chase the train to the next stop. And I shudder how painful will it be for the dear to try.

I remain standing here, for an hour almost, as the earth and sky whirls from the sides, long after she is gone from my vision. Somewhere in my thoughts I expect for the curtains to have fallen over the theatrics of this melodrama. But life is not so merciful, perhaps. My story has ended, but I am left to carry the burden of my character's sin to the sidelines where nopony will see or know.

I turn around, finally, and enter the back entrance of the train's last car, immediately bumping to a surprised train conductor.

"Ticket, ma'am?" the colt says. He does not seem to know who I am–quite an oddity–or else he would not have welcomed me so warmly.

I reach in my purse–the last of my belongings, as I have left the rest on the platform–and give the ticket to him.

"End of the line, huh?" he asks, receiving the ticket. "That's three days of travel to the Griffin Continent."

"Is it? I guess so."

"Long vacation?"

"No."

"Running away from something?"

"No."

"Set out to start a new life?"

"There's no such thing as a 'new life', little colt. Even if we want it."

"Uh..."

"My ticket?"

"Oh! Of course... Well, let's see, you're in car B-27, private and luxury. Just past there, ma'am,"–he points to corridor ahead–"and second door to your left."

"Thank you."

As I walk pass him, he calls out, "And oh, ma'am!"

I turn around. "What is it?"

"Are you... uh... Alright?"

"No, I'm not," I answer. "Why do you ask?"

"Well... You look kinda pale," he says, shrugging. "If you need a doctor or something, there's a small clinic in this train in car A-18. Feel free to go there or call a-"

"I appreciate the concern," I interrupt. There is a momentary pause. I add, "...Thank you."

The keys given to me, I enter my room and lock it close.

My pullman is a chocolate-brown compartment that is too large for one pony alone. The polished wooden frames is coated with much varnish that it hides the rims and edges of the beams, giving the illusion the walls and floor is of cement. Hanging from the ceiling is a small chandelier of brass and bronze. It does not produce any effect on me; the more modernized sharp cubic plating and the smallness of the thing, does not merit it enough grandeur to remind me of regal.The queen-sized bed in the middle, covered with a satin blanket,rests just parallel to the window. In front of the bed, just over the maroon ottoman, is a half-empty half-full wine shelf.

I walk to it, levitating one of the wine glass from the gueridon, and pulls out a random bottle; it is red wine, a Cabernet. I hesitate for a few seconds before eventually pouring myself a drink.

I finish the first glass in three gulps and enjoy every sweet long sip of the second.

I put the half-finished glass down after seeing my reflection in the red liquid. I remember the colt telling me that my face is pale, and I see it in the staleness of my coat's color.

Albeit the sun emerging from the skyline, the dawn has yet to catch up to me; except, for a few seconds from the train's turbulence, the slanted strips of orange sunlight cutting across the wooden compartment.I rise and move to the windows where I open the shutters before finally moving to the vanity.

There are some make-up on the dresser but they are mostly those cheap disposables from Manehattan. I levitate my purse on to my lap–and the glass of red wine on to the table top–and, from it, take out my own expensive brand of cosmetics.

Then, sitting here on the vanity, as I take out my materials one by one, I begin to laugh, ungracefully, at the mere impertinent thought of comparing this compartment of mine–barely lighted, enclosed–to that of a confessional kiosk; and if I am to be in a place of worship to profess my sins, then who is to absolve me? She, that hysterical, laughing, mare in the mirror?

After a few seconds, I am able to catch my breathing from all that unwelcome laughter and finally attend to that mare in the mirror:

The first is always to wipe away those motes of dirty and leftover make-up that cakes upon her face; she uses a disposable napkin and proceeds to slowly, oh so slowly to peel off the layer of excess that once beautified her visage. Then, her face a fresh palette, she begins the addition with the concealer brush, to even the tone of her face and hide the blemishes of those dark under-eye circles. An expensive liquid cream is her foundation and she begins to spread a thick layer all over her cheeks, temple, chin and neck. With the bristle brush, she adds the setting powder to remove any glistening sheen. She fiddles with the assortment of make-up, looking for the highlighter, her hooves shaking somehow. She finds the powder and begins to apply some to her cheekbones and cupid's bow. She levitates the eyeliner before her and, with tense hooves, begin to draw around the sharp and curvy contours of her eyes. She applies the primer and the eyeshadow, followed by the fake eyelashes, and meticulously coiling each strand with the eyelash curler dibbed in the black mascara. Then she takes the rouge, applying the young red blush to her cheeks. Finally, for the finishing touch, she runs the red lipstick against her lips.

She leans back on the chair, staring at me.

She looks beautiful.

And she will look this beautiful until she starts crying again.

Her makeup is ruined.