//------------------------------//
// Rarebit Reveries 
// Story: Rarity in Slumberland 
// by Botched Lobotomy 
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Dinner was served in dishes that looked like they cost more than the waiters were paid. No, Rarity thought, idly examining the underside etching, definitely cost more than the waiters were paid. But it was nice, she couldn’t deny that. Deeply nice. Courses came leisurely and delicate, full of wonderful subtle flavours that lingered on the palate just long enough to not outstay their welcome before another dish was served. Delicious, truly, from soup to sausage. And if she leaned back and lost herself in conversation with Fluttershy, why, she could almost forget the rest of the room even existed. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. It was, after all, so very nice.
The letter had been in machine-typed cursive on a thick, creamy paper that smelled vaguely of rose petals and wine. It had made its way immediately to the top of her in-box, which these days was somewhat less impressive than it might have been previously, and she had deliberated over it for a full six hours before sending her reply. This was theirs: the elegant ballroom hall, the aniseed croutons, the underpaid waiters. Exquisite, elaborate, electrified. Some ponies might take her dissatisfaction with the night, slight as it was, as proof the organisers hadn’t tried hard enough; every ornament spoke to the contrary. Some ponies might take her dissatisfaction as proof of how difficult she was to please, the famous Rarity’s famous bad temper: she hoped her conversation, her smiles, refuted that. In truth it lay somewhere in the middle: they had tried to please her, and failed. She had tried to be pleased, and failed at that, also. Still, it was a nice enough evening, considering. And then the speeches started.
Ting-ting-ting went the glass, elegant ring around the room, and Coco Pommel stood up to, “...say a few words. Thank you. What a crowd, huh? Wow. Darling, I hope I get something this big when my turn comes, because...wow.” Scattered laughter. Rarity smiled. “I can’t think of anycreature who deserves it more, though,” she continued. “Wait, hold on, it’s coming, what about...no, no. No one! There’s no one.
“Few ponies have given more to fashion than Rarity has. Given their life, in fact! Twilight Sparkle, so many designs! Has anycreature else created so many seasons of world-changing stuff? I don’t think so – or else, if they have, they’re here in this room, bowing down to you! I don’t want to get all dramatic and weepy about this, but hey, for a while there, you taught me everything I knew! Nopony, nopony could have been more supportive of my early career. Decades of world. Changing. Stuff. Just reading it makes me feel old! Look, I know there’s examples all over the walls, and a pretty little list on the leaflet, but if you’ll indulge me, I’d just like to read out a couple of the best.
“All right, so, let’s start with number one. What does it say here...oh, right, saved Equestria. Number two, saved Equestria, number three, saved Equestria...Equestria...Equestria...saved...yup, saved Equestria... I think we get the picture. But, not content with saving Equestria however-many times, Rarity casually decided to spend an afternoon revolutionising the fashion industry! Who here remembers that little yellow number, huh? Bang! Instantly iconic. One mare wears it to some who-cares party, and suddenly it’s everywhere. Couldn’t escape the things if we wanted to. All right, just one more...let’s see...
“We all knew what it was going to be, right? Hello? El Elusivo? I think my stocks went down 13% the day that came out.
“All right, I lied! Best thing, hooves down, the Boutique. Turning a hallowed hall of fashion into a business empire? That takes vision. The market agrees! The things are everywhere, now. Can’t walk down the street without tripping over three of them.” Laughter. But here her voice was genuine, emotion on her tongue. “That’s what I call a legacy. And every time I pass it, or eat my breakfast off one of those plates, well, I think to myself – here’s to you, Rarity!” She raised her glass. “To Rarity!”
“To Rarity!” It echoed round the room, and round the room again, building, building, until scattered by dessert. Rarity looked down at the stack of doubtlessly flawless mini éclairs, and felt vaguely sick.
“Rarity?” asked Fluttershy, softly.
“I’m all right.”
“I’ll call a waiter over, I’m sure we can leave without too much fuss. I’ll say you’re not feeling well, or...”
“Oh no,” said Rarity, not even trying to control her tone, the acid only thing keeping her veins alive, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
More desserts, more speakers. The various ways she’d set the stage for modern fashion, welcomed in the new guard, a passing of the torch. Sometimes some ponies had the grace to mention her old designs, the frills, the gemstones – mostly, it was speech after speech about her ponyester fabrics, her production lines, her Celestia-damned yellow summer-suits. Do they not remember? Rarity wondered, or did they simply never care? One speaker, who Rarity recognised distantly from some gala or other she’d attended years ago, had actually sourced one of the horrible things, and wore it proudly on stage like a bright yellow pimple.
Fluttershy, eventually, stopped intervening, opting to sit back and radiate concern, instead. Rarity felt a brief flash of pity. Perhaps, for her sake, they should leave. Well. One more speech couldn’t hurt, could it?
Finally, it was time for Rarity to take the stage. To thunderous applause and flashing lights and music she really didn’t care for at all.
“Hello,” she said, delicately, stepping up to the edge. “I hope everypony is enjoying themselves.”
They were, they were, they were.
“I’ll keep this short.” Oh, but why, but why, but why. Here’s why: “I have sat here all night in increasing astonishment at all your praise. Unwarranted, all of it. No, thank you, allow me to finish. Unwarranted. I have dedicated my life to this world, it is true. And as I stand up here, looking down at you all tonight...” She took a breath. Fluttershy cringed. “All I can wonder is why. I have watched this industry, over the past thirty years, become exactly that: an industry. Ruled by metal and machines and the ponies who punch numbers in them. Fashion is an art, darlings. That is how I conceived it. But as I see, what you ponies have done with it, is making it into a trade. Not an art, but a trade. Bad Luck!”
Silence. She stepped away into silence.