Chapter 5
Many weeks passed without Rarity seeing Novelty. Perhaps Novelty saw her, but it would hardly be the first time their relationship was one-sided. Rarity attempted to put the matter out of her mind and might have never again spoken with the odd changeling, were it not for the annual Ponyville Days festival.
There was a music stage that year.
“Hello, everypony,” The headlining band was new to Ponyville, having only arrived in the last few months, but their consistently delightful performances had already won them a modest fanbase, and it was felt that in many ways they perfectly represented Ponyville’s accomplishments under Princess Twilight’s rule.
They had a dragon on drums, a unicorn on the piano, an earth pony on the guitar, a pegasus singer, and one particular griffon on the saxophone. “I’m Prior Art,” said the pegasus, “and we are They Sing Cover Songs. This song is in honor of our beloved Princess Twilight, and the spirit she brought to Ponyville.”
Prior Art cracked a smile, and in a flash of green, transformed into a perfect copy of Princess Twilight. The band behind her struck up, and she launched into a stylized, poppy rendition of, “It’s Hip to be Square.”
The sight of Princess Twilight on stage, singing about conformity while strutting and otherwise behaving in a manner not at all like her, reduced the crowd to peels of laughter. Twilight was sitting in the front row, and during one of the instrumental sections, the parody of her on stage leaned down and whispered something into her ear. She giggled, and Prior Art flashed her another smile before resuming their performance.
Rarity sat quietly. The middle of the song, she knew, was a saxophone solo. Certainly, she had eyes only for the griffon in the back, but with so large a crowd, it was hard for her to tell if Novelty was staring at her in return.
“Oh, how did she do that?” Cookie Crumbles, Rarity’s mother, asked softly. Rarity was sharing a table with both her parents, Sweetie Belle, and that new colt Sweetie Belle was keen on, though Rarity had been greatly relieved to discover her sister was still in the puppy-love stage. “With the magic.”
“This is that new changeling band,” replied her father.
“I thought that was They Might Be Changelings?”
“No,” Sweetie Belle whispered. “That’s that new pegasus band. The name is ironic.”
“There’s a new pegasus band?” her father asked. “Is that that new one you’re always listening to? Uh… with the lyrics about shaking your tail feathers?”
“No,” Sweetie said, “that’s Birds of Prey and they’re a mixed griffon/hippogriff band.”
“Oh, gosh,” their mother said. “Music is getting so multicultural these days.”
The saxophone solo began, and Novelty strutted forward to take center stage, performing with flair under the spotlight. “You know,” Rarity said to her parents, “you might have inferred that they were changelings from the fact that they transformed in front of you. And you might have inferred that a song about shaking one’s tail feathers was not written by a pegasus, because pegasi do not have tail feathers.”
The looks her parents gave her were each mildly confused, neither reacting to what might reasonably have been taken as an affront. “What?” her father finally said, “and miss Sweetie Belle telling us about the new music she likes? It’s better when she explains it.”
Her parents went back to watching the performance. Rarity watched them.
Late that evening, after another band had taken the stage, there was a mare flirting with Novelty. He was still in the form of a griffon; she was brushing the feathers along his chest. “So you can turn into anything, right?”
“Changelings don’t have a pair-bonding instinct,” Novelty said, rather stiff. “We don’t do relationships, in, you know. The pony way.”
“Do you have a one-night stand instinct?”
Novelty cleared his throat. “Gosh, look at my wrist, I gotta go.” He turned to hurry away, only to stop short as he nearly ran face-first into Rarity. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, his expression was momentarily stricken.
Then Rarity gently placed her hoof in his talon. “This one’s taken, darling,” she said to the mare of unwelcome affection. “Get your own.”
“Aww, come on,” the mare pressed. “What’s she got that I haven’t got?”
“Intelligence,” said Rarity without missing a beat, emphasizing her cultivated accent, “creativity, class, empathy, money, status, flare, flanks you could bounce a coin off, and perhaps most importantly, him. I have him.” She pulled Novelty close. “So trot along.”
Novelty went along with the act, pulling Rarity close at the shoulders. Offended, the mare in question turned up her nose, let out a sharp snort, and marched away grumbling. Rarity did not at once speak, but turned to go the other way, and tugged Novelty along with her. The two pretended to be a couple for perhaps a half-dozen steps, until they were sure the other mare was gone. Then Novelty laughed. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure, darling.” Rarity let out a faint chuckle. “Really, it was.”
“I could tell you enjoyed getting to describe yourself, yes,” Novelty said, lightly. “Um. Did you enjoy the performance this evening?”
“I did. I’d like to talk with you about it if that’s okay.” She cleared her throat. “Privately?”
“Are you sure? I’m sorry about… I mean, our last talk—”
“Yes,” Rarity said, firmly. “I’m sure. Please.”
The Bowling Alley was not convenient to the center of town, but Carousel Boutique was, and so it was to Rarity’s shop that the two wandered. She skipped the pleasantries, and did not entertain Novelty in the front room like a guest, but rather pulled him upstairs, towards her creative workroom.
“I’m not making you a dress,” he said, tone guarded.
“I know,” Rarity replied. “But I want to talk. And I want to dispense with the illusion that you don’t know your way around my house. You lived here for weeks. Months, really. Make yourself comfortable.”
They entered the workroom together, and Rarity took a seat by her work desk, Novelty by the dress models in the corner.
There was no preamble. Rarity struck without mercy. “Would you be as ashamed to play jazz in front of the griffon whose form you’re in, as you are to make dresses in front of me?”
Novelty ruffled his feathers and flexed his talons. “Yes.” He managed to keep his head up, as he had not in their past interactions.
“Who is he?”
“He’s dead. Has been, for a long time. His name was Groove, and he lived about fifty years ago. I learned to play by listening to his music and stole his form from pictures and drawings. But we never met.”
“Was he famous?”
“No.”
Tilting her head, Rarity asked: “Then why him?”
“Because he was good,” Novelty let out a sharp snort. “Selling records doesn’t make a musician any better, and not selling them doesn’t make them any worse. I can decide for myself what music I like.”
“You don’t think he’d be flattered? That fifty years after his death, somecreature is still performing his songs in his style?”
“Does it flatter you?” Novelty demanded, the sharpness in his manner becoming more prominent. “Does it flatter you, when I take your style and make it my own?”
“No,” Rarity admitted. “But maybe it should. I was thinking about your performance tonight. About seeing everypony laugh. You didn’t perfectly mimic Hip to be Square. You tweaked it, changed it in ways that made it better for the audience. If Horsey Lewis and the Neighs had performed in-person tonight, I don’t think Ponyville would have enjoyed it as much as they enjoyed you.”
Rarity drew in a deep breath, and said: “Sometimes the cover is better than the original.”
“Yeah, because I have it easy,” Novelty snapped. “I get to sit back, watch while you labor, and after you’ve put your sweat and love and tears into creating something beautiful, I take it and make a stupid little change, and say, this is mine now. I made this.” He cast a talon out to indicate the dress stands beside him.
Rarity rubbed her face. “Is it a stupid change if it really does make it better?”
“I’m sorry, what did we do tonight?” Novelty pointed at the window. “We said, hey! Let’s do Hip to be Square. Only it’s a princess singing it. That’s funny. Oh, and let’s have Princess Twilight do really out-of-character things on stage, like shaking her hips and winking at the audience. That’s musical gold. Does that sound like art to you?”
“I didn’t invent stitching,” Rarity replied. “I don’t make my own fabric. Often the center point of a dress is a fabric pattern that I saw in a merchant’s stand and was inspired by. Or, I see dresses from other designers and want to do my own take on the concept. Nothing is entirely original; we all borrow from others.”
“You borrow concepts and use them to make masterworks,” Novelty hissed. “I borrowed your house, put up a coat of paint, and decided this is mine, I live here now. It’s not the same.”
Rarity let out a long breath, staring Novelty down. “Did you enjoy living here?”
“Of course I did,” Novelty almost laughed. “You’re… brilliant, Rarity. How was it you described yourself tonight? Intelligent, creative, classy, empathetic, stylish? It’s all true.”
“You forgot ‘flanks you could bounce a coin off.’” She managed a small smile.
“Only because I know you enjoy fishing for compliments.” And they both laughed.
“Before,” Rarity said, her tone relaxing, “you said you had many judgments about my life which were unkind. Things you didn’t want to share.”
“Do I have to think an artist is perfect to admire them?” Novelty asked. “I don’t want to talk about… what I think about you. Because I did judge you, and nopony likes being judged and I don’t want us to argue again. And no, in many ways you’re flawed. But your work… your life. Was good enough to steal. I don’t… I don’t know any higher compliment than that.”
Rarity nodded and looked over the room with both of them had at different points called their own. “I think, if I was a musician, your cover songs would offend me. But I’m not. And I like them. And as the pony I am, the thought of you stealing my… art. My art. Infuriates me. But the dress you gave me was beautiful.”
Rarity bit her hoof, and went on, “I hope that… one day. You’re comfortable walking around your true form in Ponyville. And I hope that one day, you can play the saxophone without turning into a griffon. But I accept that today is not that day. And today, your music is still art. And I hope that one day, you can make dresses without turning into me. But I accept that today is not that day.”
She got up, and in two short strides, crossed the distance to stand before Novelty. “But I think your dresses are art. And tonight, I’d like to see you make one. Please.”
Novelty’s face was frozen; a perfect neutral mask. For several long seconds, Rarity’s request elicited no response, and he was as the allegorical deer in headlights.
So Rarity leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. “Please, Novelty. Show me what you think of me.”
There was a flash of green light, and when it passed, there were two Rarity’s in the room: the original, and as Thunderlane had called her, ‘Other Rarity.’
“Oh, you do have a flair for the dramatic,” said Other Rarity, in a perfect imitation of the original’s voice. “It’s a tall order you know: concepting, sketching, designing, and sewing a work of art in a single night. We shall be up until dawn at the very least, and quite probably fail despite. But I suppose if it means so much to you, I shall make my greatest effort.”
She didn’t wait for Rarity’s reply, but whirled on the spot in that very same way that Rarity did, and from the drafting table procured her tools. “Now, given the time and resource constraints we’re under, it will obviously have to be something light. Minimalist. Show me what fabrics we have on hoof, would you? But nothing black. I know minimalism and black go well together, but it’s a dreadful cliche, particularly recently. I think we can aspire to something higher.”
Hesitantly, Rarity nodded, and did as she was told.
The two worked until mid-morning, when a graceful blue evening dress rested on one of the models in Rarity’s study. Rarity perhaps expected Novelty to immediately transform back into a griffon, or the grey unicorn with bugs for a cutie mark, or some other shape. But instead she, still in Rarity’s form and with Rarity’s voice, excused herself to the restroom. “Darling, I’ve been working all night, and it was a hot and humid evening to begin with. I’m tired and sweaty, and should like an opportunity to bathe before considering further artistic pursuits.”
She went to the bathroom and shut the door. Rarity waited to hear the bath running, but the sound never came, and when she opened the door, she saw that Novelty had fled out the open window. Presumably in the form of a pegasus, given that they were on the second floor.
Rarity sighed, shut the window, and went back to look at the dress on the stand. It wasn’t as beautiful as the one she had been given before; it didn’t leave her in awe. But it was good. It was art, and while it was inspired by Rarity’s past works, it wasn’t a copy of any of them.
She had no idea what to do with it.
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I was not expecting this to be an exceptionally thoughtful, nuanced take on the nature of art, but it definitely is one.
Well, no, not really musical gold, because those things don't actually have much of anything to do with the actual music being played. That's all the visual element being accompanied with the music.
Not really sure that helps or disproves either's respective points in all of this, but still worthwhile to note overall, I think.
Great story my MLP FiM friend. I do hope to see the next chapter(s) you create.
Hmmm,
As a big Huey Lewis fan I laughed so freaking hard at this bit.
Well... neither do griffon and hippogriff...
Judas Priest's rendition of "Diamonds and Rust" immediately jumps to mind. So does Motörhead's "God Save the Queen." And The Ramones' "Spiderman."
11041316
Are you wearing a raincoat?
Again I understand why Rarity want to see how novelty does and how sorry she was and you want to see what kind of talent that she has but sometimes you just don't want to do it because maybe that's just not your thing and plus novelty still feels guilty for stealing somebody's life like that and again that's why she never wanted to make dresses but she is good now things are going to be very awkward between these two
…I see now why this story had to be fanfiction.
(That’s a compliment.)
Several hundred years in the future, in the coastal town of Maretime Bay:
Sunny Starscout: "Today is my daaaaaaay!"
Meanwhile, in Middle Earth:
Aragorn: "A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!"
Weird AL Yankovic: *laughs in millions of dollars*
Dozens of Brony musicians and singers: *laughs in internet cred*
This simultaneously vindicates and attacks every fanfiction author, and fan musician.
I'm talking about EVERY Fandom.