A Town's Story

by RoMS

6. The Last Belle

“There is a fine line between laughing and crying, Darling.”

Rarity took a short whiff of her cigarette, snuffed it in the ashtray on her divan’s legrest, and flicked the butt away. Her magic trailed behind the discarded piece up until its first bounce on the parquet. The Carousel Boutique’s dark interior swallowed all evidence of her naughty little vice.

She growled, sunk into the sofa she dragged to the center of her boutique, and laid her head in her hoof. Her pinprick eyes remained still, starkly staring at a poor party pony who was hanging her head low in front of her.

“Who am I kidding?” Rarity lamented. “Pinkie, you ought to understand that you can’t keep a pendulum swinging forever. Keeping a hoof on its thread, to make it sway faster or to give it yet another extra push? To keep that bead dancing?” She rubbed her face. “It’s just a vain joke. One that prolonged its welcome. Ponies will grow tired of it, even you will… I hope. Really. And, you know, then what?”

“Everypony needs to be cheered up these days, Rarity, and it also means you,” Pinkie whispered, not daring towards the sofa. Rarity scoffed and rolled over to face the backrest. “Everypony’s got to laugh, Rarity, to be happy. Dontcha think?”

Pinkie tugged at Rarity’s silk gown, past the cover of emptied ice cream tubs. Rarity wiggled away and merely glanced back at her friend. Though curtains obscured most of Carousel Boutique’s windows, a single sunray managed to slither into the room, slicing the scene in half. It hit Rarity square in the snout.

Rarity held her hoof high to shade her eyes. Grey, purple, and blue stains matted her gown and snout. Normally Rarity would never let ice cream stain her — not in a right state of mind. And yet, her overall was covered in blotches, cream and brown alike. It didn’t feel right at all.

“Ponies need laughter and fun, now more than ever,” Pinkie protested again in a hushed tone. She kneeled by the sofa to dig her friend out of the caloric graveyard. “And you’re a pony, unless — unless you’re Discord or some changeling… Are you Chryssy? I mean, if you are–”

“Stop. Stop. Please,” Rarity whined. “I’m in no mood.”

Pinkie tried again and tugged a bit more forcefully at Rarity’s leg. The seamstress yelped back and snatched her limb away, tucking herself under her garbage.

“Rarity, please. You need... I need you,” Pinkie begged. “My laugh, my jokes. I’m losing it. Ponyville. With all that’s going around here, it’s too much. With Twilight and Starlight and all the others gone, I need my friends to laugh… with me. Because if– if I can’t even help my friends, who’s going to help me?”

Even the darkness couldn’t hide the defeat that painted Pinkie’s pale face.

Rarity rolled back to her. In the slit of light, the mare’s eyes gleamed with annoyance. Pinkie crooked away the moment Rarity let out a long-winded sigh. It carried more thorns and sharpened edges than a jagged knife.

“You will get hurt, Pinkie,” Rarity muttered. “You can’t bear the world on your shoulders. And I am not asking you to. What kind of friend would I be?”

“I may get hurt,” Pinkie replied, “but I gotta t–”

“Leave me alone. Please.”

“–try because otherwise ponies might get hurt even worse. That’s why I’m here. Everypony needs some buffer against the bad, right? That means you too.”

“Hush,” Rarity snapped as she pointed past Pinkie, straight towards me. “How long has this one been here?”

My ears hung low from my retreat in a darker corner of the room.

“Cheerilee?” Pinkie asked, turning back with a grimace. “Since we came in. We’re worried about you, Rara.”

“Hum, hello,” I said with a difficult smile and a wave. Rarity waved back and threw herself over, as if to wrap her body back in some ice-creamy bedsheets. “I was just… I was here to say your parents have arrived, Rarity. They’re waiting for you.”

“All of this, the Wall, the lost, the found, the… broken,” Rarity growled, ignoring my words. “How long has it been going on?”

I didn’t quite care to contemplate the situation. I stepped forwards. I wasn't going to let that mare hurt, and hurt other ponies by proxy. “How long have you been mulling here?” I asked, a sharpness in my voice I never thought I’d have.

“How long since the —” Rarity motioned her hoof and contorted over to stare at me “— the commotion happened?”

“Three weeks,” I replied hesitantly, and threw a fleeting smile at Pinkie. Silent tears rained down her cheeks.

“So… six months since this whole mess started,” Rarity mumbled to herself, before exclaiming, “Ah, wintertime, how fortunate, the shortest days and coldest nights, oh, the most dreadful of times.” She brushed her mane over her face, hiding herself from Pinkie’s sight. Meanwhile, her hoof fished for any potential surviving ice cream sludge. "How fitting for a mood."

“Come on, Rarity, today is an important day,” Pinkie pleaded between two hiccups. “You gotta come.”

“Have you ever considered some ponies like to cry, Pinkie?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Pinkie answered. “Why would anypony like to cry? It’s sad and, and, and… grouchy ponies end up alone. Nopony wants to be alone, right? It hurts, and if you hurt you get sadder, and you push ponies away, and you get aloner, and…” Pinkie’s muzzle scrunched up. “So, uhm, n– no?”

“I want to be alone right now.” Rarity clicked her tongue and the hollow note rang loud, and it cut deep. Like taking a cleaver to a chocolate cake. If Pinkie was the cake. The poor mare faltered and her knee hit the parquet floor.

“Are you angry, Rarity?” Pinkie asked. “Angry at me?”

A sigh was often more painful than silence. Rarity offered the former.

“Ahem!” I coughed in my hoof, calling for their attention.

“What!?” Rarity snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Pinkie whispered, eyes locked on her hooves.

I shook my head and exhaled. “Many ponies are expecting you, Rarity. And to be honest, you're being a terrible friend.”

“I don’t want to go,” Rarity sniffled.

“Come on, Rarity,” Pinkie pleaded. “Please.”

“Pinkie,” I said, and her ears perked up. She swallowed and hunched over, hiding the tears matting her pale, pinkish face. “Could you… give me a moment with Rarity? Alone.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came forth. Her tears fell off her chin and, catching the faint light, twinkled on their way down. I smiled as hard as I could and patted her shoulder. After a time, she sat on her withers and held onto her slick mane.

She inhaled and nodded. “I hope you’re better at cheering her than I am."

With that, she stood up and turned around. Her first hoofstep hit the parquet like an anvil, and I caught her in a surprise hug. She withheld a sob and reached out, returning the gesture.

“It’s okay, Pinkie,” I said. “Sometimes, things don’t work out. Rarity is mean because she's sad.”

Pinkie’s response came as a nod that brushed against my fur. I laid my head against her mane and let her drink in my warm embrace. Like foals, touch-starved ponies needed their time.

Soon enough, Pinkie slipped away from me and paced herself to the exit. Rarity groaned as the evening's sunlight rushed in for the brief moment as the door swung open. Pinkie’s hoof accompanied it on its way to a close; the hinges never squeaking.

Rarity and I simmered in silence. The room was thick with smoke and the smell of poor hygiene, mixed with that of chocolate chips and vanilla ice cream. I winced as I caught a better view of the poor mare from my close vantage. I put a hoof on the sofa, feeling its mushiness, and sought the occupant’s shoulder to give her a hearty pat.

“I’m not going,” Rarity mumbled before I could reach her.

I retracted my hoof. “You should.”

“Let me have one last evening alone in my boutique, my home, before it gets destroyed,” Rarity said, her voice a low whisper. Her hooves scraped against her caked up mane. “Please, leave me alone.”

“Rarity–” I said firmly. "You need to come."

“I. Am. Not. Going!”

She ruffled around on the sofa and a dirty ashtray popped from under her and fell over. It shattered into a hundred bits against the cold, hard floor. Each shard was a diamond that caught the light through the Boutique’s single half-drawn curtain.

I exhaled the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, caught by surprise at the intensity of her outburst. Though hesitant at first, I brushed the floor and sat by the legrest. Rarity was crying as I reached out and rested my hoof against the musty fabric of the sofa by her shoulder. Her hoof soon crept up to meet mine.

"I am sorry," she rasped.

“It’s not about you, you know,” I replied. “It’s about her.”

“I smell.” Rarity sobbed, “don’t I?”

I nodded slowly. “Like a skunk.”

She chuckled and turned her head at me. Her lips creased with a sadness she could hardly contain. She gulped, loud and clear. “Like a diamond dog?”

“Like a yak in a tropical forest.”

“Now you’re overselling, Dear,” she mumbled.

“You should dress,” I said, retracting my hoof from hers. "Shower first, though."

“For what occasion?”

I recoiled... "Rarity. Rarity,” I sputtered. “F– For the funeral, of course. Don’t you remember?"

"There’s no pony to bury, Cheerilee."

"Your parents are waiting. Rarity, I–"

"She is not there!" she screamed.

I stumbled back, pushed away as she rolled off of the sofa. She hit the floor face first, a loud thump that sent empty ice cream tubs tumbling and bouncing on the parquet. The mess of slurry splashed at my hooves.

She lunged at me. She lunged at me, grabbing me by the collar. Her hooves scraped against my coat and her vanilla-gooped muzzle pressed against my chest.

I stood still, waiting for a blow that never came. I looked down; she looked up. Her face was melting through emotions fast. Anger, pain, fear, anger again, her traits twisting every time she fought back the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

"She is not there. Got it?” she hissed, a hoof painfully locked around my leg. She swallowed a knot, hiccuped, and shook her head. The hiss turned into a snarl. “No, you don’t get it. Why would you? You didn't act when you could’ve… Why would you now?"

I faltered under her weight, heaving as she dragged me to my knees. She rolled into a ball by my hooves and I expected her to force her way under my barrel. For safety? But she curled into a fetal position and sobbed.

"I won't," she rasped, her face hidden under her leg, "I won't go to her funeral."

"Rarity–" I whispered, patting her dirty mane. My heart was pounding, a cold sweat running down my neck. As she took a deep breath, her lips curling up to show gritted teeth, I braced.

"You could have stopped it," she spat. We exchanged stares and she retreated back under her hoof. "That spawn of Filthy Rich. That little, sniveling devil you've put up with in your school — in your own class! You could have stopped her. But you didn’t."

I faltered again. My rump hit the cold, sticky wooden floor. As I looked aside, Rarity crooked herself back up on her withers, then up on her four hooves. Her legs popped as she stood high and towering. I dared not look into the blue fire that was surely raging in her eyes.

But the shine of the parquet reflected the icy glimmer of her horn. Rarity rarely looked down at ponies, but when she did… She had a certain talent for making you feel worthless.

I raised my head and she closed her eyes. Her chest rose. She held her breath. Only after a few seconds did air leave her lungs in a staccato. As many arrows that pinned me at her hoof. I could only wait for the unleashing of the rightful fury pulling her at the seams.

A twinkle and a spark. Her horn flashed and a whipping crack ripped my eardrums. Along with her scream.

The sofa barreled past me and crashed against the wall. It ripped off a canvas on the way down, crushed a desk and the rolls of fine, black fabrics stacked over it. Cushions and ice cream tubs rained. A mannequin toppled to the side in a clang, snapped in half. The mourning gown it wore tore with it.

Silence settled in the boutique, broken only by a spools of thread that rolled in a semicircle until it hit my hoof. Cold sweat cascaded down my spine.

"You could have stopped that brat and her little bet," Rarity seethed. “Where were you during that recess?”

Her tears clawed black old mascara down her cheeks. Like trenches through pristine lands. Loud and heavy breaths wracked her, like war drums, a rhythmic flow of untold curses. First at me I was sure, then at a world I knew she felt had wronged her.

"You didn't do anything then, and you're not doing anything now.” Her withers hit the floor in a pathetic thump and she finally looked at me at eye-level. "That bully killed my sister and you..." Her lips revealed grinding teeth. Her eyes, hesitant.

I was crying too.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she muttered. Her hoof struck the nearest floorboard hard enough she ripped off a long shard of wood. Her pastern was bleeding, and she didn’t even utter a ouch. She stared at the gash instead. For a time. Before her eyes drifted back to me, boring into me with fire. "You know the worst thing, Cheerilee. The most enraging, blood-boiling part? It wasn't that– that foal... It was her father.” My throat choked on those words. I had a hard time breathing the rancid air of the boutique. “He never came to me. He never apologized. He never considered me — I, an arriviste in more than the nobles’ eyes.”

She stood up and walked to the nearest tub of ice cream and kicked it away. Its left-over content spurt in an arc against the flooring. The plastic package hit a sewing machine and splat to the floor where it rested, rocking from side to side.

"He never communicated. The coward. Only his lawyers did." Her lips trembled, but not from sadness. Only rage, boiling, an earthquake of emotions that stood her coat on end. "They never came to my door either, only letters came."

"I’m sorry," I said, finally breaking my mutism. "I–"

"He was ready to discuss compensation.” I had never heard her seeth like that. A snake under a pony’s coat. She repeated, not in anger this time, but in defeat, "ready to discuss compensation. As if I was here to negotiate my sister's weight in gold."

I gulped. And felt the grass cut from under me. She’d chuckled. A grim, dark laugh that felt like a blade pushing into my flank.

“Sometimes, I resent Twilight, you know,” she whispered, her head coming low as if to hide under her own legs. My heart wrenched. “It’s a passing feeling really, but a feeling nonetheless. I am glad she came storming into town all those years ago; made my life so great and bountiful.” She breathed through gritted teeth. “But it makes dealing with reality so much harder. That’s why I resent her. Once the high of being by her side wore off, seeing how the world actually works outside the Nobility’s preserve is such a torture.”

She walked to her snapped mannequin, and pulled the gown from it. She wiped her face clean with the fabric, both mascara and ice-cream. And threw the fabric on the overturned sofa. She lingered over the naked mannequin parts.

They hurled against the ceiling, the floor, the ceiling again, the brute force of Rarity’s bright blue magic rippling outwards in blueish waves. It rained nuts, bolts and stuffing. A waltz of clattering, clanking, and ripping.

Some time spent in silence passed until I found the courage to stand up again. Rarity had come to sit down, riveted by the fruit of her work. Only the gentle rocking of her back let me know she was there in the shadow of her boutique. The sun was nearly set outside. Gone was the sliver of light that had torn through the shop.

Soon this shop would be gone too. Either by its owner's choice, like what had happened to Timeturner's. Or by coercion, like with Roseluck. Cheerilee sighed. Timeturner didn't have a choice when one came to it. Fragile things broke down in the vicinity of the Wall. His clocks, any fine piece of refined mechanisms... friendships too.

Rarity’s thrumming heartbeat echoed the weight of her pain, the burden of her grief.

"I’m a terrible pony," she whispered as I sat by her side. “Broken, like my sewing machines, like everything in town. It's all broken.”

"No, you're not,” I said. Even broken clocks were right twice a day. “It's okay to be angry–"

“Am I scary?” In the light of her horn, a forced smile spread her lips apart. As I was unable to muster a word, her eyes broke away from mine and rested on her hurt hoof. A sob escaped her. "I am absolutely, thoroughly mad, dear, and– and–"

"Rarity..."

I stood up and, prodding around, found a discarded candle. I found a match and soon enough, a faint but warm orange light bathed the boutique. I could have opened the curtains, but for the little light that remained outside, I didn’t dare risk peering eyes. Rarity didn’t deserve that.

"I’m such a bad mare,” Rarity said, “I know what it would mean. If she hadn’t intervened in Diamond Tiara’s bet.” I did know too. Sweetie Belle had saved somepony from touching the wall. A bet Diamond Tiara had edged others to try. “But… I still wish Sweetie Belle was here.” She rubbed snot off her muzzle and turned to me. “She had to save Scootaloo, right? That poor pegasus had to take that bet, didn’t she?"

We sat down together, with my hoof on her shoulder. “You can’t change the past, Rarity. What Sweetie Belle did was what any good friend would do.”

“I know, it’s just…” She hiccuped. "I’m selfish. Oh, to hope that, for once, the universe would’ve been generous to me." She cried into her hooves, like I had never seen her do before. And though Rarity cried a lot, this time wasn't for dramatics, but tragedy. “I’m pathetic.”

And I had a first-row seat.

"I’m awful, rebuking," she blubbered. “A social climber.”

"Rarity!" I called out, slapping both her ears. She perked up, eyes wide and unfocused, and she gasped as I forced her into my open legs. "You are not okay, and that's, uh, okay — it is... it's alright to cry. You are a great mare, and seeing you like that..." I gestured at the destruction she wrought around her boutique. "It shows you really loved her."

“Love doesn’t matter when it’s too late to give it," she spat once a heavy sigh passed. "She isn't dead… She isn’t dead."

I pinched my lips. Holding my breath, I swallowed the chestnut shell deep down my throat, and forced myself to smile. "Can you do something for me?" I asked.

Her ears perked and she hummed back to me. "Yeah."

"Take a shower. You stink.” I said, and she laughed. As I held her tight, I wiped her tears and maquillage against my fur. Sneakily. “I didn't take Rarity, the greatest seamstress, for a filthy diamond dog."

“That’s prejudice, you know.”

“You started it with the metaphors.”

“Touchée,” she snorted and curled into my legs to smell her leg pit, and gagged. "I’m such a degenerate —" I slapped her ear again. "— Ow! What’s that for?"

"Stop commiserating,” I ordered, “and go take a shower. I herd foals all day, I don't want to deal with a marebaby this evening."

"Like you did such a good job at it in the first place."

I faltered and let go of her, her gasp nearly unheard as my chest tightened at the strength of her verbal blow. Eyes closed, I worked on steadying my breath. But I couldn’t hold the tears back.

"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," Rarity muttered, straightening herself on her shaky legs. "I’m being so uncouth right now, and hurtful, and mean. Look at me, I’ve made you cry." She scoffed. “What an element of generosity, I am!”

“Just shut up.”

She froze and I swallowed back the stronger words tittering on the tip of my tongue. I sniffled, took a deep breath, and nodded.

"I wish I could have been more vigilant that day, Rarity,” I said, lips quivering. “I should’ve seen Diamond Tiara coming up with that nasty bet about touching the Wall. I should’ve seen Scootaloo falling for it.” I crossed my legs and dodged her eyes. “There’s not a single day that I don’t wish that I could go back and change that. I failed her. And I’m, oh, so... so sorry.” I burst into tears and fell apart like a house of cards. Crooked over, defeated, remorseful. “Nopony, especially Sweetie Belle, deserved that."

"She isn’t d–"

I snagged her into a strong hug and motioned at the chaotic state of her shop. "Hush now, just… let’s stop this exercise in self-destruction."

"Are you calling me melodramatic?"

“Kind of.”

“I know I’m a terrib–”

"No. Stop,” I said. “Clasp that cute fuzzy muzzle of yours shut, young lady.” I pressed her face against my chest as I inhaled deeply and loudly and let it all out in one single stream of air and regrets. “If you don’t get out, out there, for her, at least do it for your parents. Your mom and dad really made the trip here — you know the train doesn’t run anymore."

Rarity nodded, lips pinched to hold a sob much palpable against my coat.

"I just wish I could firebomb Filthy Rich's house some time," she said and I chortled. She huffed back, and pushed herself away from me, vexation clearly visible on her face. "Come on, laugh at me if you must.”

"No, I won’t," I said, embracing her once again. "I mean, I just doubt you know how to make a mareotov cocktail, is all."

"Why, do you?" As I didn’t answer, she pushed herself away from me again. “No way. Why?”

“I was young, okay,” I sputtered.

“Still are, to be frank.”

I rolled my eyes. “Compliments will get you nowhere.”

It would be useless anyway. The Rich house had been emptied a few days ago.

“What time is it?” Rarity asked.

“Late.”

“Late how?”

“Dunno, evening?” I said with a shrug, bringing her tight against me. “It’s not like clocks work anymore in this town. Even time forgot us.”

“Did I really start with the metaphors?” I felt her smirk against my coat.

“Shut up.”

“How are the girls?” Rarity mumbled after a while. “I’ve not talked to them since.”

“They’re taking it... okay, I guess.”

“Okay?”

“I don’t think ‘well’ is the proper term for it.”

A long and tenuous silence rushed between us. We spent it listening to the low whistle of Rarity’s runny nose, or maybe the few voices outside the boutique’s door.

Two older ponies were diligently waiting for us.