• Published 4th Apr 2015
  • 929 Views, 17 Comments

In The Belly Of The Lights - Miller Minus



Rarity and a stranger with a familiar smile roam a Canterlot night together to fall in love with the city lights, an empty museum, an ancient goddess, and swing music.

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It's Driving Me

"Alright, fess up. How did you do it?"

Rarity sat alone on a stone bench – cloaked in her horn's magical glow – and listened as her date fumbled along the walls of their newest destination in the dark.

"How did I do what? Hang on a sec, I've gotta find... it's somewhere 'round here."

"How did you convince the guard to let us in? Why, he barely even flinched!"

"It's fine! Are you gonna steal or hurt anything? No. And I'm not either, so what's the big... where... is it..."

"That's all perfectly well, Patch, but I... You know you can ask me for help. I can use magic, after all. Where a-"

*CHOM*

Rarity gasped as a crisp onrush of brightness filled the room. Her spell was smothered and she hid her eyes away from the bursts that followed the first.

*CHOM*

*CHOM*

*CHOM*

"Theeeeeere we go."

Rarity rubbed her eyes, adjusting them to the audacious new light. She and Patch were in a tall, marble room that was now bathed in a white glow that matched the coat under Rarity's dress. She recognized the room as the fine arts gallery of the MOCHA—the place she and Patch earlier agreed was the highlight of the museum. Her eyes passed over its displays—paintings of extravagant landscapes, terrifying monsters, and finely detailed characters. She had seen them all before, but somehow they were different. Their colours were more enhanced, their scenes were more exposed, and the love that each artist's work had received was now on display as if for the first time. She exhaled and spun around gently, gawking at the exposed beauty of the empty hall as her shadow danced gleefully beneath her.

"Sweet Celestia... Why is it so gorgeous tonight?"

"'Cuz there's no crowd," Patch pointed out with a wink. "I figured you'd like it." He was looking back at her now, sitting in front of a particular painting next to the arched entrance to the exhibit. The curtain next to it that concealed the control panel slowly relaxed back into place. He beckoned her to join him and turned back towards the artwork as she approached. "This one's my favourite," he stated plainly.

The painting – entitled My Papa Was Rolling Stone – depicted a rugged and tenacious-looking stallion dressed in a poncho and cowboy hat. He was running on uneven terrain through a wild sandstorm, but he wore a determined smile amidst his danger. The artist had contrasted the specific details of the pony's shape with wild, dusty strokes around his body. Patchwork sighed and nodded as Rarity took a seat on the floor next to him.

"What do you like about it?" Rarity inquired.

"Uh, I dunno. The colours, I guess. And the title."

Rarity scoffed and cocked her head at the pony in the painting. "It's mostly brown and grey," she teased.

Patch laughed and rubbed his neck again before inhaling sharply.

"Yeah, I guess it is. But the title!" he cheered, approaching to tap the nameplate underneath the painting. Rarity didn't move, but developed a grin.

"Alright, so what is it about?"

"Well... this guy! Rolling Stone! I think it's pretty cool."

"Or perhaps he's the son?"

Patch frowned animatedly as she stood up and joined him underneath the steeled pony's adventure.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"The story behind this painting... is of this gentlecolt here. His father left him and his mother when he was just a foal. The only memories he had of him were from the stories his mother told. Nopony knew where his father went or why he left, so he set off on a journey to discover the truth, to visit the places he visited, and to somehow, eventually, become like his father."

Patchwork's mouth fell open, and he rapped his front hooves together.

"Ohhhhhh."

"In the end, he learned so much about his father that he decided he simply couldn't be like him. Not because he lost his respect for him, but because he decided he would much rather be his own stallion—not tied to what his father was, or even what his mother wanted him to be."

"I've had it wrong… this whole time.”

"Well, that isn't necessarily true," Rarity interjected. "The story behind any piece of art – be it a painting, a sculpture, or even a dress – is not for its creator to decide. It's for the audience."

"Still," Patch asserted, "I like your version better. Say, how do you know all that, anyway?"

"Oh, I frequent this museum for the inspiration, to be honest. My friend Twilight lent me a book on the stories behind these famous paintings. The art on display is truly teeming with ideas for my fashion lines. In fact, my–"

Rarity paused and looked down at her dress. She stuttered and stepped away from the painting, before locking eyes with the confused Patchwork and blurting two words.

"My dress!"

"Your dress?"

"There's something I have to see!"

She made a hard right and hurried down the row of paintings, ignoring Patch's startled call. The deep red furls of her dress’s base swirled with her tail behind her, allowing each painting only a brief glance at her hurry. As she ran, the paintings made jealous cries for her attention.

She passed Blue Moon Rising, which rose for her and offered her mercy from the sprint, but she ignored it.

La Baleine La Plus Solitaire Du Monde cried out for her eyes and ears – to be its friend and share in its stories – but she could not hear it.

The Figurine turned for her gaze and encouraged her to listen to its beautiful music, but she could not stay close.

Finally, she swiveled and broke, sitting down to catch her breath and developing an eager grin. Patch caught up quickly – not one to be outrun – and approached the plate underneath Rarity's enchanting painting.

"The Scarlet Mare," he read aloud. He stepped back and sat beside her, and the two peered up at their new guest in the frame, who was gazing back at them expectantly. She was an imposing red pony with deep and flowing purple hair. She was standing on all fours—forelegs spread in a powerful stance atop a composite of wrecked rock and rampant rivers. The water was crashing around her hooves, adding a shimmer to the golden shoes on her hooves. She wore a crown of dirty gold accented by six shining jewels. The moon itself was partially obscured by her vast, unfurled wings. She was unclothed, apart from the necklaces of gold and gemstones that lazily clung to her torso and forelegs. Patchwork gulped as her fearless expression looked down on him from the painting's elevation. "Oh, there's more here... Clothed with the-"

"Clothed with the Moon, and the Sun under her hooves.
And upon her head a crown of 6 stars of rejuvenation.
Babalon, the great mother of gods and villains of all generations."

"Yeah, that's... that's what it says."

"Who sitteth upon many waters
arrayed in purple and scarlet colours.
And decked with gold, and precious stones, and pearls."

Rarity stood up and let out a satisfied sigh while interest spread across Patch’s face like a fire.

"Who was she?" he asked.

"Babalon. She is somewhat of a legend long passed—a goddess from a very different time. The legend says that she was a ruler of a large castle in the center of the world which she ran unlike any other leader Equestria has ever seen. She had no army, no aides, just her home: the castle. She allowed anypony to use it completely as they wished, either to play, to laugh, dance, sing, talk, whatever they desired, as long as they enjoyed themselves. Ponies used it as a place of rejuvenation; a place to leave their troubles behind and just be... anypony but themselves for a brief stay." As she spoke, Rarity slowly walked up to the scarlet mare's golden shoes. She moved to place a hoof underneath them, but pulled away at the last second. "She kept the castle all by herself. She did the cleaning, the organizing, the security, all of it. She couldn't bear the thought of receiving help from her guests."

"She sounds pretty awesome," Patch added.

"Look here. Under her eyes." Rarity pointed up to the engulfing visage of the painting's subject.

Patch stood on the tips of his front hooves and scrunched up his face. There were dark wrinkles and cracks around her eyes that could only be seen from a few inches away. "She's tired," he deduced.

"She was a heroine to so many ponies in her kingdom... But it affected her. The strain of keeping her castle clean and orderly, of allowing it to absorb the untamed madness of her guests, it took a heavy toll. The damage is so brilliantly veiled; you can only see it if you know to look."

Rarity chose not to continue the story when she noticed Patch’s confused face. “What do you think?” she inquired.

“Uh... You kinda lost me after ‘clothed with the moon.’ Sh-she’s... I mean, she’s not wearing any clothes. And she really didn't accept anything? Like, at all?”

"Not exactly… She did receive many gifts from her guests. The jewels, the pearls and the crown, for example. She cherished them as memories of the ponies she had met, the stories she had heard, and the happiness she had brought to them. For every mark of damage on her body she has a gift to remember who was responsible for it."

Patch's eyes widened and he looked to scan Rarity's dress. He moved towards her to get a closer look, brushing up beside her before sitting down and silently offering a shoulder to lean on. Rarity didn't move.

"She was also given motherhood of all the immortals of Equestria. Some say – though they deny it – that that even includes Princess Celestia and Princess Luna themselves. The Great Mother, many ponies called her, though others called her..." She waited for her smile to fade before she continued. "...The Great Whore."

Patch contorted his face and shook his head suddenly. "Huh?" he blurted.

"Despite the great sacrifices she made, she was shunned by the other kingdoms of the land. They called her foolish. They called her a harlot. They even managed to call her selfish. They claimed that her 'rejuvenation' of others was her way of sucking the life out of them—coveting their happiness for herself and stealing the gifts and the immortals in the process." Rarity exhaled a satisfied sigh and looked over at Patchwork, still oblivious to his approach. "But it never fazed her. She always knew who she was, and that thought simply pushed everypony's criticisms away from her. She was the pinnacle of beauty and generosity, and I…” She lifted a furl from her dress and let it fall lifelessly back onto the stone. "...I can’t say I've done her justice."

Finally, silence returned to the empty hall. As Rarity looked down at her dress, she couldn't see Babalon looking proudly at her for her recollection of the goddess's legend. Instead, it was Patchwork with his eyes locked onto the two piercing jewels; unveiled centerpieces for the mare whose beauty was only paralleled by the two reflections she cast in his eyes. He gulped again and squirmed, as though she was sneering at him for his lack of appreciation. In an attempt to escape, he broke the silence.

"Well I think you look great tonight."

Rarity barely gasped as she noticed him sitting so close to her for the first time. She closed her mouth after a few seconds and chuckled gently. "Oh, Patchwork," she began, shifting her weight to her side and leaning against his neck.

"Of course I look great tonight."

He made a stuttering laugh and smothered it in his hoof.

"I'm wearing one of my own dresses, after all. I only meant–"

"Yeah, I know what you meant. I think you did do her justice, though."

"I'm flattered, but–"

"Hey, you said it was up to the audience."

Rarity pulled away for a moment, before sighing and looking back to the painting. "Yes, I suppose I did," she said.

When quiet filled the hall again, Rarity pulled out her watch.

"Goodness me, is it that late already? I only have three-quarters of an hour before the last train!"

She stood up and made ready to dash towards the exit, but was halted underneath Babalon’s gaze. As mysteriously as on its first arrival, her heart’s excited rhythm returned. Her chest’s tiny instrument approached a speed nearly twice as fast as it had when she first laid her eyes on Babalon. Wondering what it was for only made it faster, and in an attempt to calm herself, she falsely concluded that the painting was her heart's new lover. After all, it was either the painting or the twenty-eight minutes of waiting at the train station she was suddenly in a rush to meet.

And then she looked at Patchwork again, who was sadly looking at the watch in her grasp, and in a perfect wave of inspiration she realized the truth that had been following her around the entire night.

It wasn't him either.

But he would know where to find it.

"Time for one last stop?" Patchwork interrupted with a grin.

Rarity gently turned to look at the works on display again. The heartbeat tantalizingly pattered away, and surely her calm returned. Patch pointed up to the ceiling cheerily, and she followed his hoof. It was made of a fine, polished wood, spanning the entire length of the gallery and even the hallway leading out of it. It was a light beige tint, complimenting the marble walls in a way that hid it from the mind's eye.

"Remember the stairs at the entrance?” Patch asked. “With the velvet rope blocking it off?"

Rarity stashed away her pocketwatch. "What are you getting at?"

"Wanna see what's up there?"

"Yes."