//------------------------------// // Missing the Mark // Story: Homecoming // by Antiquarian //------------------------------// The rest of the dinner party passes in a blur for me. I have a vague notion that the conversation winds back to more pleasant topics, but they could be talking about tapdancing penguins for all I know. To be honest, I’m not certain I say anything beyond rote responses. Even Chef appearing with my favorite tiramisu is not enough to reclaim my focus. Sloppy on my part; now he’ll worry and feel obliged to check in on me later, and we both know how much he hates dropping our façade of mutual antagonism. I’ll have to slip him a bottle of Doublewood Scotch with a backhooved compliment on the attached note to forestall his concern and save us both the trouble. I’m not sure who among the others notices my distraction – with such a large and exuberant gathering it’s possible that my quietude has gone largely unnoticed, or at least been relegated to the status of unremarkable. I’d prefer that, honestly. The last thing I want is one of my friends asking about what’s bothering me when what’s bothering me is… well… them. Well, not them per se, it’s just… … after all the pain, all the misery… … I simply don’t understand. Maybe I can’t understand. I’m not sure if that makes the situation better or worse. Fluttershy probably notices my silence. On top of the fact that she’s sitting next to me, she also spends most such gatherings quietly observing others. Out of all of them, it would bother me least if she asked what the problem is. After all, Fluttershy was not in the practice of… well, it was never her job to… as a medic her role was not… Oh, the hay with it! There’s no nice way of framing this: Fluttershy never killed anyone. All she did in the war was save lives, and I find the fact that she can miss the war a little easier to swallow than the notion that my other friends… … I mean, I can understand the reasoning, even appreciate it to a degree, and I know that none of them miss the killing and death, but… It’s a lot to process is all. The notion that such kind, gentle, noble souls as my friends could miss something so terrible for any reason is a lot to fathom. And with Shoddy, especially with Shoddy, coming home with his mind so in pieces that he can’t hold down the most basic of grunt work… how could any rational being miss something that hurt so much? Yes, I can see the logic that one would miss the comradery and the clear sense of purpose and the familial love. Celestia knows I’ve missed our adventuring days for the same reason! Thus, I can accept, at least at an intellectual level, that my friends could miss war. But to accept it at an emotional level, especially to accept that Shoddy of all ponies misses it, that is a bridge too far! Or perhaps I just feel that way because it’s still fresh. Not an everyday occurrence to have your worldview upended, after all. Maybe it will make sense in a week or two. Or maybe I’ll be left on the sidelines wondering. Again. I try to focus on enjoying my tiramisu (Chef is a culinary artist) and rejoining the conversation, but inevitably my thoughts return to the rut of my unfathomable quandary. It’s exhausting. By the time the dinner finally winds down, I feel ready to sleep for a week. When Twilight suggests that the group adjourn to the library to continue the evening’s festivities, I spy my chance to escape. Citing several poor nights of sleep (I’ve struggled with periodic bouts of insomnia ever since the attempt on Twilight’s life), I beg leave of the merrymakers to depart early. My polite exit is greeted with urgings to tough it out and stay, mostly from Applejack and Rainbow Dash, whose teasing tone suggests they’re distracted enough to miss my discomfort. In fact, only Fluttershy seems to pick up on my ulterior motive, though, true to form, she stays quiet about it. (Big Mac and Bud might see through my façade as well, but it’s hard to tell with strong silent types). Then, as I’m leaving, Shoddy offers to walk me home. The genteel offer takes me off-guard. Shoddy’s standard lack of any filter sometimes makes it hard to remember that he has a courteous heart. He may lack certain social graces (okay, he lacks many social graces), but that’s more down to him not being able to judge time and place than it is to any lack of respect for others. I’ve known plenty of ponies with much technical politeness but precious little regard for courtesy. Shoddy, with his offer, reminds me that he’s practically the opposite. At first, I try to refuse – I don’t really want company right now and, in any case, it’s been good to see him really enjoying himself for a change. But he’s insistent and, given that this is one of those rare times where his courteous instincts line up with a technically polite action, I accept his generosity on the condition that he return to the castle to enjoy himself after seeing me home. The long walk back to the boutique is quiet at first, but that doesn’t last long. “Miss Rarity, what’s wrong with—” Shoddy begins to ask with his usual brashness, “—er, what I mean ta say is, can I ask what’s botherin’ ya?” Sweet Luna, he actually changed what he was going to say to be more appropriate! Magnifique! I mean, terrible time for it, since I don’t want to talk about this, but magnifique all the same! “Shoddy, I’m…” I stop short of denying that anything’s wrong. On top of the fact that I’m trying to be better about not using even little fibs, I don’t think it would work anyway. “It’s not something I’d like to discuss in public,” I say instead. The stallion raises an eyebrow and looks around at the streets, lit by the rising moon and the lamp posts. Empty streets. Looking back to me, he says, “If ya don’t mind my sayin’, we ain’t exactly out in public right now.” Yes, well, I suppose that Ponyville is still a country town, recent and rapid wartime expansion notwithstanding. Ordinarily I like the small-town feel, but right now the lack of busyness is decidedly inconvenient. I heave a sigh, weighing whether or not to ask him to drop it. He probably would, but something tells me it would come up later in ways he no doubt thought were subtle but would, in fact, be about as subtle as Trixie and Pinkie juggling fireworks. While on fire. Ultimately, I decide that it’s better to lance the boil now. “I truly haven’t slept well lately, but you’re right; something is bothering me. I—” “Yer wonderin’ how we can miss the war, aincha?” “Well… yes,” I admit, biting back a correction about him interrupting me because now isn’t the time. “Intellectually, I can accept missing comrades and cause, but to miss something so terrible as war, I don’t…” I look up at him. “I don’t understand it, Shoddy! How can you miss war when it—?” I chop the question off before I finish it with an overly blunt question, but Shoddy seems to hear it anyway. “How can I miss war when it left me bucked in the head?” he asks. “Not quite how I would have put it,” wincing at my mistake as much as his coarse language, “but I suppose that’s the gist of my question, yes.” Shoddy shrugs, showing no offense. “Fair question. I’d ask it in your shoes.” He’s quiet a moment, showing unusual thought before speaking. “Miss Rarity, when did ya find out what you were good at? Yer special talent and whatnot?” Not the direction I expected this conversation to go, but let it never be said that Rarity cannot adapt. “Well, it started when I was making costumes for a school play. You see, I had made serviceable costumes, but I wanted them to be exquisite. Then, later that night, my horn started glowing…” I tell him the story of how I got my cutie mark. He listens attentively, not getting sidetracked like he usually does, and interrupting only to ask a few clarifying questions. Did my parents understand my aspirations? Well, no, not really. But they supported me anyway? Well, yes, I suppose they did. Was it clear from the start what my special talent entailed? Mostly, I suppose. It became more nuanced with time but, yes, I had a clear idea almost immediately. Have I always been able to pursue my special talent? For the most part, yes. True, it’s been a long and arduous process developing my business, with multiple false starts, failed investments, and botched deals, but Equestria is friendly to entrepreneurs and I’ve always been good at learning from my mistakes. Throughout the conversation, he stays on topic. Ordinarily, I’d rejoice in this, but currently his intensity fills me with disquiet for reasons I can’t put my hoof on. By this point, we’re close to the boutique, but I’m no closer to hearing his explanation. My first instinct is to pry it out of him – I have a certain talent for getting stallions to open up – but in this case I think it’s best to let him tell me when he’s ready. With his final question answered, Shoddy takes a moment to think before saying softly, “Yer a real lucky mare, Miss Rarity. I hope you know that.” I nod. “I am aware, and I am very grateful for my many blessings.” He nods silently, then speaks while staring at some unseen point in the distance. “I grew up in the Middle of Nowhere.” He snorts. “Literally. Some jackass thought ‘Middle of Nowhere’ would be a funny name for a frontier town.” Well, that’s donkey humor for you. “I didn’t get no schoolin’,” he continues, “an’ I didn’t have nopony to learn me a trade. Ma and Pa were farmers, like most o’ the town, but I never had no talent for it. I could kill crops by lookin’ at ’em. Folks used ta say I was a busted earth pony.” I bite back a horrified remark for fear that interrupting him would cause him to clam up. “I tried minin’,” Shoddy says. “Thought maybe if’n I couldn’t make nothin’ grow from the earth, I could at least work rocks, but I couldn’t tell coal from granite. All I was good for was bustin’ rocks, an’ even then I wasn’t as good as ponies with marks for it.” He sighs. “That’s how it was with just about everythin.’ I’d find a job, try it, an’ either screw up big time or just be no better than a dumb grunt who couldn’t do much but hit things or move things. But I had ta find some work, ’specially while my siblings were too little ta work much. Pa often took sick, an’ Ma had ’er hooves full with the others tryin’ ta run what little land we had. We needed the money for medicine, bad harvests, and fixin’ busted equipment. So, I ran all over town findin’ any grunt work I could. When the work ran out, I walked ta other towns and did grunt work there, sent money back.” We’ve reached the boutique by now, but we don’t go inside. I don’t even pull out my keys to unlock the door for fear that if I make any noise I’ll silence him forever. “I can’t tell ya how many miles I walked, how many rocks I broke or carts I pulled. I weren’t good at none of it, but boy howdy I worked. Some places I don’t even remember the names; I wasn’t there long enough, an’ nopony needed me to stay around when the job was done.” He laughs bitterly. “But you know what the craziest part is?” He waits until I shake my head. “Craziest part is, my cutie mark showed up somewhere in that mess.” “‘Somewhere in that mess?’” I can’t help but repeat. “But where? Doing what?” “No buckin’ idea,” comes the bitter chuckle. “Ain’t that just a kick? An iron shoe shows up on my flank one day without so much as a ‘by the by,’ and I got no idea when. Coulda been any one of a dozen er so odd jobs. An’ nopony noticed, ’cause I weren’t never around long enough ta make friends. I tried ta figure out what it meant – a farrier maybe, or a miner? But no matter where I went, what I did, I was no better at it after I got my mark than before.” “Then, one day, my kid siblings weren’t kids anymore. They all got their marks in farmin’ stuff like my folks, and suddenly the farm weren’t strugglin’ no more. They had money, they had workers, they had talents and…” he shrugs and looks away. “They didn’t need me.” “Oh, Celestia,” I breathe, my heart breaking. “When the buzzards almost killed the princess, well, it weren’t hard for me ta enlist. I wasn’t good for anythin’ but gruntwork, so I figured I’d do gruntwork for somethin’ that mattered.” There’s a flash of a patriotic smile on his face. “For my country, for my princess. Plus,” he shrugs, “ain’t like I was worth much at home.” Oh, that is far enough! “Shoddy, surely you must know you’re worth more than—” “But then somethin’ crazy happened!” he says, not seeming to hear me. “I join the Marines an’ I find out… I’m good at something! For the first time in my life, I’m really, honestly good at something! I’m so good that ponies want me around! I got ponies who want me, ponies who need me! I get brothers and sisters and family like I never—” Shoddy stops abruptly and he looks away, swallowing his emotion. In the evening light it’s hard to tell, but I could swear there’s moisture in his eyes. “But I can’t do that no more,” he says, his voice shaky. “The one thing I ever been good at, and I can’t do it no more. An’ the family I made, my brothers, I didn’t…” He blinks and rubs a hoof across his eyes. “So… yeah. That’s why I miss the war, Miss Rarity.” It’s not the first time today I’ve been utterly at a loss for words, but none of the other times left me feeling so devastated as I do right now. Only through sheer force of will and the knowledge that he’d be mortified do I prevent myself from flinging my forelegs around him and crushing him in a Pinkie hug. “Shoddy, I…” tears tug at my eyes, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so terribly sorry.” Shoddy shrugs, and I can tell he’s blushing even without being able to see clearly in this light. “Ain’t yer fault, Miss Rarity. Not like it’s a big loss anyway. Like I said, I’m just a worthless grunt who ain’t never been good for—” “NO!” I shout, jamming my hoof over his lips. “That’s enough Iron Shod!” His eyes are wide as I declare, “I’ll not have you say such lies in my presence. Just because you cannot see your own value does not mean that it isn’t there! You are far from worthless, and I will not tolerate you speaking ill of yourself! Am I understood, Marine?” I take my hoof away from his lips so he can speak. “Yes, Ma’am,” he manages in shell-shocked voice. “Good,” I say. Hard to judge how deeply that lesson actually sank in, but it’s a start. “You’re lucky you said that to me and not to Applejack. Your old Gunny would have kicked your tail up between your ears for being so down on yourself.” I jab him in the ribs. “So don’t make me have to report you.” He swallows and weakly says, “Yes, Ma’am.” Allowing my voice to soften, I ask, “Shoddy, do you trust me?” “Yes, Miss Rarity,” he replies, some strength returning to his tone. “Then trust me when I say that I will help you see the value that I already see in you.” Even in the dim light I can see the hesitation in Shoddy’s eyes – the inner war between hope and despair. He swallows, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath. When he lets it out, he meets my gaze. “Okay, Miss Rarity. I trust you,” he says. There is fear in his eyes, but also trust. Good. I can work with that.