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.
After Rarity's night in Canterlot is disjointed by an absent date, she and another luckless romantic head downtown to try and find a reason to not go home.
But when the music is this loud, how long will it be till the floor crumbles?
Cover Art by Malliya Pre-read by the strikingly handsome Meridian Prime and the handsomely striking Dark Avenger. Special thanks to AugieDog for helping me get it EQD-worthy.
It was scarce at the ball that night. Usually, the castle ballroom would be filled to the doors with the regal, the posh, and the dazzling Canterlot elite; but that night, in the familiar yellow glow of Canterlot's higher estates, whether it was through a mishap in scheduling or a missing bag of invites, it was scarce. The most excited guest from the lead-up felt alone in the idle chattering. It wasn't for all the missing guests, but just one.
It was an hour before she left the ball. She gave herself a full hour of cordial greetings, pleasant mingling and business meetings; but after the sixth glance at the clock, she left. She trotted to the garden doors, opened them quietly and slipped away. Only one member of the party noticed her final glance, her final sigh, and her exit to the garden. There was no fanfare, there were no happy or sad goodbyes; she was simply ready to leave.
He peered out the window to see her saunter away, sit on a stone bench and look skyward. When her eyes hit the moon, her expression transformed into one of listless bliss. He rudely waved away his conversation partner and followed her, eager to cast off the golden glow of the ballroom and seek a place next to her in the silver.
The half-moon greeted her by painting her scarlet dress in a solemn glow. It sat with her on the stone, lazily but surely holding to her form. The pearls in her carefully tossed mane and tail glimmered in the new light more brilliantly than in the old, and the precious stones embedded in her necklace cast unequal patterns underneath her chin. The unmoving painting stared at the moon's face, as if engaging in muted conversation with its light.
"Is your date in the can?" the stallion asked when he arrived, studying the face that betrayed the sad scene around her. Her smile faded and she rumpled her nose, not taking her eyes off the moon's embrace.
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose," she replied, carrying the words to him with fitting poise.
He sat down a pace away from her on the bench and watched as she shared her smile with him momentarily before returning it to her friend among the stars. After almost a minute of silence, he inquired again, and she revealed that she had been invited to the ball through an eloquent letter, signed by a stallion from a well-known, upper-class family. The letter expressed interest in her company, as opposed to her business.
"It was a match made by Princess Cadance herself," she explained as her smile became aloof. “Him, the son of the wealthy, entrepreneurial Brand family; me, the diversified fashion designer with a growing clientele, turning heads across all of Canterlot with her designs, but... I suppose she had other plans for me."
The stallion shifted in his spot instead of speaking.
"Truthfully," the mare continued, "I'm half expecting my friend Rainbow Dash to jump out from behind the flowers and reveal herself as the master prankster. And then we could laugh at my foolishness, grab some ice cream, and catch the next train home. But..."
Her listener surveyed the plants for a sign of the trickster, but they were the only two in the garden.
"...It looks like I'm riding alone tonight."
The unicorn mare unzipped a hidden pocket underneath her chest and pulled out a silver pocket watch. She glanced at it, sighed, and hid it away again.
"So why don't you look sad?" the stallion finally asked, rubbing his foreleg and accidentally scuffing his suit jacket with dirt.
"Well, to be honest I've spent all of the past week worrying about tonight," she confessed. "I thought of every question, every answer, and everything that might turn this night into another... Gala, as it were. I checked and rechecked my dress. I wrote scripts for us to follow in my mind. I..." She shook her head, still smiling, still staring.
"But then he didn't show up," her visitor surmised.
"Either that or he saw me across the way and simply changed his mind."
"I still don't understand."
She turned her smile to him again. "Well," she began, "my night wasn't a complete waste. It wasn't a waste at all, in fact. I now have a meeting with two barons of the fashion industry scheduled for next week, and I have a new line of formal wear that I'll have to get started on bright and early tomorrow morning if I'm to have any hope of finishing before Tuesday. And on top of that, I even had a pleasant catching-up with my good friend Fancy Pants. I may not have met my handsome and princely stallion tonight, but in the end, I suppose..." She looked back to the moon one final time and shrugged her shoulders loosely. "…I'm numb to that idea," she whispered.
They both glanced back at the golden scene playing out in the ball. The ponies were enthralled with each other's company, sharing exquisite hors d'oeuvres and scattering stories with laughter that leaked through the windows. None of them noticed the estranged members in the garden.
"So what's your story?" the mare inquired.
"Uh," he stuttered as he rubbed a hoof on the back of his neck, scattering hairs onto his sleeve, "kinda the same as yours. My date didn't really show up, either. Except... I didn't get anything done in there." He laughed suddenly but dropped it when she didn't join him. "So when's your next train?" he deflected.
"Not for another ten minutes. Although, they are running every half-hour tonight. I may stay a while longer, yet. After all, it would be a shame to let such a beautiful night..." She looked up to see a deep blue cloud now shielding her from the moonlight. She frowned and retrieved her watch again.
"Hey, so listen," the stallion chimed while she stashed the timepiece away, "I kinda had this whole thing planned for me and my date tonight. We were gonna hang out at the ball, then I was gonna take her down to the city... We were gonna... well... get my money's worth." He laughed again and pulled a wad of beaten up tickets out of his coat pocket. He lightly shook them in his hooves while covering them in a disappointed sigh. She noticed in their mess they were folded into identical pairs.
"I'm sorry it went to waste," she said tepidly.
He stood up from his seat and stuffed the tickets away, before dressing himself in a rather dangerous looking smile. "But it doesn't have to! Hey, how about we stick it to the ponies who ditched us, huh? Really show 'em that just 'cuz they don't wanna show, doesn't mean it's gonna ruin our night. Whaddya say? Wanna blow this place and go see what else is happening in Canterlot? It's on me."
She smiled warmly and shook her head. "I'm flattered, sir, truly I am, but I don't even know your—"
"Patchwork!" he interrupted.
"Patchwork?"
"But you can call me Patch."
He held a toothy grin between his wide, desperate eyes; and for a moment, she recognized it. She had seen it many times before on the face of the friend who never failed to cheer her up: the generous wish for happiness and the eagerness to please. She was at home in Ponyville, likely planning for somepony's birthday party, but her pleading smile had somehow travelled without her.
"I suppose there's no harm in it," she finally replied, smirking and raising a hoof for him to take. "Rarity."
"Alright, let's go!"
Patchwork turned away and skipped towards the garden's front gates. Rarity left her hoof dangling for a few seconds before raising an eyebrow at him. He stopped and looked back confusedly.
"You coming?" he called.
Rarity stood up and removed the small amount of dirt on her deep-red dress with her magic. She tightened the stoned brooch around her neck and narrowed her eyes at the stranger. His coat was a burnt tan, and his mane was a striking yet disheveled sky blue. His cutie mark was of two horseshoes, clanging together if the decal behind them was any indication. His bow-tie sat loosely around his neck, and the dirt on his sleeve had not been cared for.
But then she noticed his shoes. They were two deftly assembled collages of leather, built for dancing, running, and any other stress he could put them through. They were not new, but their age had been well hidden by stitches and polish. She gave one last look to the ball, filled full with formality and familiarity, before surveying him again.
"What kinda spell did you put on this thing? I'm gonna croak here."
The two castaways descended Canterlot's streets, away from the castle's far-reaching light. There was a silence about the pristine homes that they passed. Either gold in their own light or grey in their own darkness, they all stayed perfectly quiet, gleaming in the generous castle's aura.
"There is no spell, I merely tightened it. It was about to fall off your neck! And I'm not about to be seen wandering Canterlot in the middle of the night with somepony who – quite frankly – looks like they just lost their bottom ten bits at the craps table."
Rarity was almost walking with a different stallion now. His colours and clothes were the same, but she had run a spare comb through his mane, pressed his suit jacket while he wore it, and pulled the bow-tie closer to his neck. She had also convinced him to stand straighter as they trotted, though that hadn't lasted a minute.
"'Middle of the night'? It's not even nine yet! Besides, I just woke up, so it's natural to look like that."
As they walked, Patchwork revealed himself as the cobbler who ran the 'Sole Patch' shop in the upper part of town. When they passed it, he pointed out the metal box fixed into the wall beside the door. It was shaped, and it indeed functioned, like a return box at a public library. He explained that it was where ponies could drop off their horseshoes, work boots, or whatever hoofwear they owned that needed repair, and he would have them "Patched up" by morning. He only met his clients when the job was finished, as he preferred trying to guess their lifestyle through their shoes before finding out what kind of a pony wore them.
"Natural? Darling, the word you're looking for is nocturnal. Speaking of which, I must say the idea of running your business overnight is mystifying to me. Do you not get lonely?"
His favourite customers, he had continued, were the high class citizens that bore their famous, upturned noses, delivering worn out dancing shoes to his shop while trying hard not to be seen. They were the type that could simply get replacements, but always had an excuse or two as to why that couldn't be done, despite looking embarrassed to be seen with them. These customers were few, he confessed, though they were not far between.
"Eh, not really. There’s always somepony with their lights on somewhere in Canterlot.”
They arrived in a poorer part of the city, though 'poorer' was a term that any district in Canterlot other than the castle's could claim. It was not dangerous or impoverished, but simply dirtier. The cobblestone slowly dissipated as they walked, gradually developing a dusty coat of the soil it sat upon. Though in truth, Rarity thought, the dirtiness could have been a product of the location or of the bright street lights that shone above it.
Rarity knew this place, of course; it housed one of her favourite cafes. But somehow, it was noisy and foreign to her. There was murmuring, laughing, cheering from the residents; all accompanied by the babbling waters of Canterlot's network of streams. She knew Manehatten could become vibrant at night, but she never expected it from Canterlot.
"So, what do you think?" Rarity asked as she tried to ignore the energy of the bustling night crawlers.
"'Bout what?"
"Why, becoming partners, of course! Think of the possibilities, Patch. We could create some stunning ensembles together with my dress sense and your shoe-making skills. I mean, granted, hoofwear has been out of style for years, but–"
"Hah, you sound like my parents," Patchwork added.
"Well, for what it's worth, I think it’s due for a tremendous comeback. Why, we could join the Ponyville-Canterlot markets and meet with clients twenty-four/seven! Won't you at least let me look into the opportunity?"
Patch grimaced and let out an awkward chuckle. "I'm just a cobbler, Rarity. And, I mean, I dunno."
Rarity grumbled as a couple of volatile ponies ran past her and threatened to steal the attention of the entire street. They were seesawing between tiny giggles and boisterous laughs as the stallion chased the mare underneath the streetlamps. The mare tripped and the stallion caught her with his magic, causing a burst of laughter that only ceased when they noticed their observers and blushed. But the event just led to more giggling, which faded away as they picked themselves up and ran out of sight over a small bridge.
“Just what is going on tonight?” Rarity inquired.
“It’s the end of the month!” Patch exclaimed, throwing his hoof in the air. “Have you never been to Canterlot on a month’s eve?”
"I suppose not, but I don't see why that's got everypony so…” Rarity paused to drape the next word with disdain. “…Frenzied.”
“Heh… You ain't seen nothin' yet.”
The farther Rarity and Patch strayed from the castle, the more bridges they had to cross. As they neared their destination it began to feel less like the streams were cutting through the dirt, and more like the cobblestone was sitting upon the waters, exposing them in several places where their calm, bubbling sound could permeate the streets. They shimmered under the street lights, and they were the only constant noise amidst the conversations flowing through the cafes and alleyways.
After Rarity was finished with the awkward silence, she broke it. "So, where is our first stop, sir?"
"Dead ahead!"
The street was splitting ahead of them, and at the end of their road was a brightly lit bar with pulsing music exuding from its door. Atop the door was an extravagant neon sign that read 'The Crossroads', which was oddly hung over a different, much more tame sign. When Rarity had first asked where they were headed, Patch told her that his friend “Aces’” local band was playing at the crossroads, which led her to believe a group of buskers were playing jazz music at a street intersection.
"That building is The Crossroads?" Rarity asked. "But that's Saucer's Café! Why–?"
"Not on the month’s eve!” Patch explained poorly.
"I see," Rarity breathed, narrowing her eyes at the open door as they approached. "And this friend of yours... What type of music does he play?"
"Oh, lots of stuff! Soft rock, hard rock, alternative rock, country rock, the works! They go all out!"
"...Lovely."
As Rarity’s fake smile disappeared, they arrived at the bar, and Patch began fiddling with the tickets in his pocket again. He dealt with the burly looking doormare sitting on a stool next to the entrance while Rarity began to feel the full force of the workings inside. The noise battered her face as much as her ears, lapping her with wave upon wave of notes that were slightly yet offensively out of tune. The smell from inside was not pungent as she expected, but instead carried a faint, smoky aroma. As she glared at the no smoking sign next to the door, the doormare approached her and reached out for the pocket in her dress, causing her to step back and glower.
"And just what do you think you're doing?" she snapped.
"Relax, Missy," Patch laughed, patting the pegasus on the back. "She's with me."
The bouncer shrugged her shoulders and sat back down, clicking a mechanical device around her leg twice and gesturing inside. Rarity's date turned to enter the bar but stopped when she didn't follow. He smiled at her and asked what the matter was; the music and the smell not appearing to faze him.
"It's just– I'm not so sure this is my cup of tea, Patch," she announced, still grimacing at the doorway. "I mean I cannot speak for your original date, but-"
"Not a party girl?"
"It's not that. I love a good party. But the parties I normally attend have friends, and punch, and cake, and... are held in a room where I can hear my own thoughts, you see."
"So you don't like dancing, then?"
"I enjoy dancing," Rarity protested, stretching her hind leg behind her. "As long as it's organized dancing, anyways. Some strange and wonderful things can happen when I dance, but I-uh... I'm overdressed, you see. And so are you."
He didn't speak or lose his confident smile, so she retracted her leg and continued.
"Perhaps I should introduce you to my friend Applejack. She loves the bar scene. Or Rainbow Dash! She's always ready to-"
"Hey," he interrupted, resting a hoof on her shoulder, "I've seen this before. I was the exact same way a couple years ago before I started coming to bars. But now I can't keep away." He breathed in the lingering smoke and sounds around them before happily letting it out. "Just give it a chance."
Reluctantly, and after she had removed the new dirt from her shoulder, she followed him inside. She quickly and unsurprisingly discovered that the scent and sound from the entrance were fitting indicators of their presence indoors. The smoke in the air was not enough to cause a fog – though it was certainly trying – and the blaring music from the band was vibrating the floor underneath their hooves. Rarity watched it as they walked to the bar, wondering what was waiting underneath it should the noises and weights of the dancing ponies on the open floor cause it to fall away from her.
After a shouting match between herself and the bartender, Rarity successfully ordered a bottle of water. Patch rolled his eyes dramatically at her before tapping a quick pattern with his front hooves on the counter, somehow ordering a bottle for himself. She watched him curiously as he opened his throat and emptied it within seconds. Once finished, he trotted to a small table near the door and pulled out a seat for her, grinning awkwardly. She quickly followed him, throwing off the awkward glances her dress was receiving from the unclothed crowds. She sat down on the high stool and sipped her water, while Patch's gaze was locked on to the dance floor. She watched it with him, though her mouth was growing in the opposite direction to his.
Discord, Rarity thought, would have been proud. There were several spotlights trained on nothing, moving around in uncommon patterns and shining different coloured beams onto the walls, floor. and ceiling; and she cringed every time they caught her. The lead earth pony on stage was belting several indiscernible words into his microphone, and the unicorns around him playing bass guitar, keyboard, and drums, all had their eyes firmly closed, scowling as they battered their instruments.
But most chaotic of all were the dancers. Their rough, puzzling movements were creating clattering, stumbling, and impossible laughter. They had a clear lack of respect for each other, yet they all seemed enthralled with the company. Dotting the crowd were several motionless gazers, zoning out to the band and ignoring the dancers that crashed into them. Rarity gave an inaudible chuckle when she realized that the movers danced like her friend: The princess with the woeful depth perception. The chuckle expanded a little more when she imagined what they would look like if the band was to go silent without them noticing.
Patch winked at Rarity and gestured to the floor, but she responded by holding up her front hooves and shaking her head. Without protest, he shrugged his shoulders, loosened his bow-tie again and jumped into the fray.
If it wasn't for his jet-black jacket, Rarity would have lost sight of Patchwork. The frenzy of shuffling ponies welcomed him immediately as if following a rule – written or otherwise – to never question a stranger. She watched them light up happily, hug him, and then push him into each other rudely. She cringed as she saw him get tossed around, but his wide smile only grew wider with every shove and every shove back. At one point during the first song, he stood on another pony's back and waved to the lead singer. Rarity saw him respond with a wink, though in truth it could have been to anypony.
The first song finished, and there was a brief quiet for the crowd to fill in with their own noise. Hooves rapped, stomped and threw their love to the band, and Rarity sipped her water. As she prepared to check her watch for the first time since the garden, she stopped for several stunned seconds when a familiar face in the crowd matched eyes with her briefly, before it panicked and dove back in where it wouldn't be seen.
"Upper Crust?"
A new rhythm started, unbeknownst to the band, unbeknownst to the crowd, and unbeknownst to Patchwork. It was Rarity's heart, suddenly beating irresponsibly fast from underneath her dress. She sat up in her stool and scanned the crowd again, but the lights were off of them, frozen on the stage. She stood out of her chair and approached, following her rising heartbeat to its disappeared source.
Just as she was about to step onto the floor however, the next song started, and she turned her focus towards it. She was unimpressed by the first, but suddenly willing to give a song a chance from its start, knowing that finding Upper Crust’s ghost in the crowd would mean getting closer to the storm. It was slow at first, with only a single guitar accompanying the singer's out-of-pitch voice. He sang two words then stopped, signalling to his guitarist to stop as well. He apologized to the crowd and cleared his throat while they cheered him despite the mistake.
"It was too fast for me," he explained.
Rarity's heart rate returned to normal, and only underneath the cheers could you hear the inaudible sound that left her pursed lips.
“Hmmm.”
The song restarted shortly after Rarity returned to her seat, and she opened her ears. This time it was a little slower – with the whole band playing – and her interest began piquing at the lack of blare in their sound. The band's leader sang a short phrase of doing before thinking, taking chances and avoiding the struggle to make decisions. He serenaded the captive audience with a listless happiness for his lack of initiative and self-awareness. It struck a tone of nostalgia with Rarity, but not of relation. When he finished the opening and screamed a 'YEAH!' into the microphone, the band and crowd went wild again. The mare in the dress grumbled and took another sip of her water.
Desperate to find something in the bar to stare at, her eyes found Patch again. He danced like he was mad, leaving no area of the floor untouched by his experienced shoes, and changing his movement and style at every opportunity he had. Rarity noticed several dances from different eras transitioning into each other seamlessly. His suit was still somehow intact despite receiving more and more friendliness from the ponies around him, especially the mares. Rarity watched closely as they intentionally bumped into him, stood in front of him a few times and attempted to start a more romantic dance. Despite the advances, Patchwork kept his unaware expression focused on the band.
When the song ended, and after Rarity had checked her watch three times, her dancer in the lights came rushing back to his date with a worried look on his face. The mares on the floor pouted and turned away. He gestured to the floor, but Rarity refused again, so he smiled questioningly at her and pointed to the exit.
"Why are we leaving?" Rarity asked as they passed the doormare again.
"Uh, I'm not gonna lie, it didn't look like your cuppa tea," Patch answered, rubbing his neck again.
"Well, I did try to warn you," she said politely as she finished her water and floated it into a recycling station.
"I'm sorry about that. I shoulda known that was too much for somepony like you, I... I understand if you want to go home."
Rarity pulled out her watch again and made a pointless glance in the direction of the train station. "Well..."
Rudely, they were interrupted when the door to The Crossroads swung open and the directionless couple from earlier spilled out of the bar. They giggled and passed Rarity and Patch without notice, before stopping and stifling their laughs in a sudden, brash kiss. Rarity took a step back and stuttered. When they broke free, they paused and touched noses and foreheads, closing their eyes and breathing out in unison. Then, as if wishing to trip and fall again, they ran back up the street.
"...It wasn't... so bad, I suppose," Rarity finished.
"Really?" Patch asked, scrunching his nose.
"Well... No, it was rather shocking. But I don't have to leave yet."
"That's great!" he cheered, pulling out the clump of paper from his pocket as Rarity fixed his tie and pressed his suit. "There's a lot more we could..." He contorted his mouth as he flipped through the tickets. "...Actually, the next stop is the last stop."
Rarity craned her head and took the tickets from him. They advertised disco, honky-tonk and jazz, respectively; and they were all for establishments that were foreign to the socialite. "But, what about all of these?" she asked.
"They're alright, but they're not..." He paused and smirked, before carrying the tickets to a nearby trashcan and throwing the rest of his night away. "...The museum."
Rarity's eyelids rose, allowing more light in from the street lamps around her. "The museum? You mean the Museum of Contemporary Historic Art?"
Patchwork nodded.
"Oh, I love the MOCHA! I was just there last week! But, hold on a minute..."She frowned and raised a hoof to her chin before quickly retrieving her watch and scanning it. "...Would it not be closed at this hour?"
"C'mon," Patch said, before he rediscovered his eager smile and pulled her front leg away from The Crossroads.
"Okay, okay!” Rarity laughed. “Slow down!"
The two castaways took off again in the same direction as the couple that passed them moments before. The doormare smiled at them as they ran, clicking the device in her hoof four times.
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?"
At the top of the restricted staircase, Rarity and Patchwork found the attic. The subtle, wooden ceiling from the hall was the attic’s rickety, wooden floor. The walls and roof were still marble, encapsulating the expansive room completely in stone save for the small windows along its walls. In its correct place was a border of scaffolding and covered paintings leaning against every wall. Out of its place was the black box at the far end of the room, which Patch had quickly run to meet after they reached the top.
But the most prominent features of the attic had to be the powerful lights arraying the ceiling, perfectly still yet eagerly swallowing the attic whole in their light. Rarity shivered as they failed to bring her the warmth she expected from them, and she kept her attention on the floor as she walked timidly across it.
"How old is this floor?" she asked. "Listen to that."
*errr-errr-errr-errr*
Patchwork had run far enough ahead to not hear her concerns over the sounds of his own excitement. As Rarity made pursuit, she eyed the floor that was failing to quieten or louden with every step.
Patchwork's item of interest was a tall, rectangular stand with a foamy, mesh coating around its sides. At its top was a circular stand holding a perched disk with a needle hovering loosely above it.
"Is that a record player?" Rarity observed.
Patchwork stood beside it and beamed at her, before knocking a small latch out of its side. "Well, would you look at that," he added dumbly.
"Just where are we, Patch?"
The excited stallion began cranking the latch on the player. "The attic. This is where the museum stores all the paintings and sculptures that aren't being used. Thing is, this place can hold more than a thousand ponies, so it's like a ghost town up here."
"And yet there's a record player here." Rarity approached the loaded music station and studied the label on its top, which was wobbling loosely from Patchwork's rough turning. There was a brown haired mare wearing a cartoonish skull over her brow on it. Both were staring lifelessly through her.
"Yeah, what are the chances? Hey Rarity, have you heard of swing music?"
Rarity scoffed at the question. "Yeees, I've heard of swing music."
"Okay, ever dance to it?"
"Not really. A few times, but not... not enough to know any of the dances, you see."
"The dances," Patch remarked with a roll of his eyes, "were the worst thing to ever happen to swing music."
"I, um... I beg your pardon?"
"Here, I'll show you." Patch stopped turning the crank and pushed it back flush into the side of the box. He extended a hoof to the mare next to him while wearing the most charming smile he could muster. Rarity stepped back and looked away.
"Are you sure that’s safe? This floor is very worrying, don't you think?"
"The floor?" Patch questioned. He reared on his back hooves and delivered a powerful stomp to the floorboards. Instead of creaking, they absorbed the force with a tiny vibration and a tremendous boom. "The floor is the best part," he said, raising his hoof again.
"Oh, that's quite alright, darling. My hooves are aching from all this walking, anyways. I think I'll sit this one out."
"Too late!"
Patch gave the needle a nudge, and it lightly fell onto the record as it began to turn. An eager, ambient crackle filled the vast attic, and within two seconds the notes on the disk began to play.
It started with a casual drum beat and a lazy bass line. Patch grinned and strolled backwards in beat with the music, loosening the muscles in his neck and letting his head pivot left and right. Rarity smirked at the lethargy in his steps and giggled when he dramatically kicked off his dancing shoes. He lifted one foreleg to her again and pulsed on his other, repeatedly tapping the floorboards as if he were an extra member of the drum kit.
"Well... alright, but I should warn you: I wasn't lying when I said strange things happen around me when music starts to play."
"Funny, I don't feel warned."
Rarity coyly pushed Patchwork’s leg away and paced around the record player as she aligned herself with the rhythm. Her heartbeat began to rise again, though it was no longer in wonder or ponder, but in acceptance and expectance.
And as she began to dance in time, the floor fell away. Starting from the walls, each of the floorboards decided they were no longer needed, and began to drop one by one from the warming-up dancers to allow them more space. There were a thousand, then five hundred, then less than fifty, then only 8. As Rarity and Patchwork coolly circled each other the floorboards fell and rose to catch them, trading the opportunity to support them as the two travelled the empty space. Neither Rarity nor Patch looked down, as their eyes fell out of focus and shut so they could better hear the calming bass line that followed them around the room. The 8 floorboards became 7, then 5, then 3.
Then 5,
6,
7,
8.
Trumpets exploded in unison, and the floorboards were blown away by their strength. With an unreserved laugh, Rarity held down her dress and Patch cheered as they fell to the darkness below them, chased the whole way down by the generous lights above. The music was suddenly accented by a single note from an exotic metal instrument on wood, and Rarity opened her eyes to see a colourful platform rising to stop their descent.
Rarity landed first and Patch second, atop the head of a pony more than ten times their size, cresting over the surface of an endless ocean. They landed in her stark purple mane and rode its length down her water-slicked neck to her back. They grabbed each other briefly to regain balance before pushing each other away to improvise their own solo dances. Their eight wild hooves banged harshly against the mare's scarlet back and began to leave bruises on the surface, but when they looked towards her giant, craning head expecting fury, they were met with a warm smile. The mare's wings burst upward, surrounding the dancers with a torrent of cold, wet wind that encouraged them to continue dancing, stomping, and carrying on.
And they did carry on. As their platform took off in flight, Patch took off towards her tail—partially to see it, and partially to accept his inertia. Rarity followed—her hooves battering the mare's back in perfect time with the piano. When they reached the tail they halted as the music took a silent pause for breath. As the bass came in and played alone, Patch and Rarity gazed upon the ocean below them, illuminated by a mess of stars and a single ball of red light, casting warping reflections on their faces and leaving them stunned.
Despite their desire to soak in the sights, their platform had other plans for them. Without warning, she drew her hind legs out from underneath, causing them to holler and resume their fall. They looked back up to see her performing a backflip and winking at them as they fell towards the ocean below, a few detached strands of her mane and tail speeding past them into the water.
But before they crashed, a purple carpet raced into view, caught their hooves without deflecting, and sprung stiff in an instant. They absorbed their fall with closed eyes and gasps, and the music regained its wild pace.
Their new dancefloor was a royal, stone throne room. Ancient, unseen, and imperfectly dirty, it towered around them as though they were small critters come out from a hole in the wall. Lining the center carpet were several golden lamps, and next to the empty throne was the record player, dancing on its own with the boisterous music. Patch jolted his hoof towards Rarity, and she took it and drew him closer to her. With a sharp inhale and a laugh, they circled each other’s grasp in time to the drums, only to remember how free they were before they touched, and release.
“Oh!”
Rarity spun away uncontrollably, slipping on the purple carpet and landing on her rump. She blushed and bolted to her hooves, still rocking to and fro, and Patch leapt at the chance to drive his nose under the new furl in the carpet and toss it into the air. A lamp at the room’s entrance fell over as a kick drum played. Patch dove underneath the airborne carpet and prepared to throw it again, only for Rarity to pick the entire thing up with her magic and ball it up before his eyes. She packed it like a snowball, ignoring the kick-drum crashes of each of the falling lamps, and gave a hurrah as she hurled it at the throne, knocking it over with the sound of a blaring horn.
As laughs became guffaws, the dancers came together and danced again – for just a few seconds more – before the bottom half of a red and purple mare passing the entrance caught their attention. The dancers excitedly dashed towards her ghost, hearing her deep, sly laugh fill the halls of the castle while a pair of hooves tumbled down the keys of a piano.
They burst through a set of doors – uncaring of what was on the other side – and found themselves in the sky of a rain-filled forest clearing, where the music lost several instruments and became a touch more ambient. They dropped towards a raging river, dotted with a few rounded stones. Patch landed first and regained his balance on one of them, and laughed at Rarity as she struggled to stay on top of a different slick surface across the way. When she slipped off, another stone rose from the water with the sound of tearing fabric to aid her. She gained her balance on the two rocks and swayed dreamily with the quieter music, noticing a rising action of guitars from beneath the calm.
Patch slid down the side of his platform, kicking off from it and flipping backwards in the air. Another pillar instinctively rose to catch him, but he had lost height and hit the stone too early. The record player played two tiny ripping sounds as he stumbled.
Patch shrugged off his mistake and resumed his sauntering dance, turning with his date to a waterfall that was a thousand yards high at the end of the clearing. They hopped along the rising stones towards the crashing falls, making sure to land in time with every shriek from the trumpets. The torrential rain did nothing to push them into the river, and just as they leapt towards the waterfall, aiming to collide, the music paused for two seconds that lasted five.
With another boisterous clamoring, Rarity and Patchwork became entwined in the air and fell through the thin layer of water into the ethereal space underneath the attic. When they caught another glimpse of the scarlet mare flying upside down beneath them, they pushed each other away, each landing on one of her front hooves and resuming moving with the beat.
Their soaring platform clanged her hooves together, causing Patch to leap over Rarity as they switched hooves and howled with laughter. Then, without warning, the hooves were brought down to the mare’s chest and throttled towards the ceiling lights of the attic, launching the dancers happily towards them.
Patchwork performed several twists and spins in the air as they rose, and Rarity simply beamed as the enormous alicorn below them pierced the waters headfirst with a cacophonous splash that signalled the end of the song’s grand climax.
Just as Rarity and Patch wished to fall again, two groups of three floorboards rose and touched their hooves when their velocities hit zero, and rose up to meet the ceiling lights once more. When they were back at the proper height, Rarity and Patch swiveled around each other panting, moved about wheezing, and drew closer and closer to each other. The band on the record player had gone silent save for the drum and the bass players, still moving at a quiet yet blistering pace. The floorboards were 8, then 7.
It was scarce in the museum that night. Usually, it would be filled to the doors with the regal, the posh, and the dazzling Canterlot ponies. But that night, in the familiar silver glow of Canterlot’s moon, whether it was through a mishap in scheduling or a missing bag of invites, it was scarce. Rarity, the eager to leave, the guest of honour, basked in the warmth of the ceiling lights. She knew how alone she would never feel again as long as they held her.
"I... needed that," she concluded, still reclaiming her breath from on her back.
Patchwork meanwhile was strewn out a few paces away from her, unknowing to how alone he was about to be. “Hah… I told you… the floor would be fine… Happy you came up?”
Before she could answer, they noticed themselves being watched by the security guard from the top of the stairs. The uniformed stallion broke the silence and caused Rarity to jump.
“Uh, sir? Sorry to, uh… interrupt sir, but I’m changing shifts in a few minutes. Just thought I’d let ya know.”
Patchwork sprang to his hooves and halted the record player as it threatened to continue playing. He darted his eyes between the guard and his date before clearing his throat. “Thanks, Flint. We won’t be long,” he said with a shooing wave of his hoof.
“No problem, Mr. Brand.”
“Augh!” Patch yelped as the words blindsided him onto his back.
“I mean Patch-! I-… sorry.”
The guard sealed his mouth and trotted downstairs before Patch had a chance to recover. Rarity didn't react, as she was busy scanning her dress for damage.
“It looks like your cover has… been blown, Boulevard,” she panted.
"You knew?”
“Oh, please. Your family owns this museum.” Rarity stood up and inspected a loose ribbon around her hind legs. The bottom fraction of her dress was about to come clean off without it. She grimaced at first, but with a smile she pulled the entire thing out and caught the fabric before it hit the floor. She draped it over her shoulders.
Patch gulped and eyed her tepidly from next to the record player, biting his lip.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning, hmm? Who is ‘Patchwork’?”
“Still me!” he protested, “ I'm Patchwork. I'm still the cobbler... it’s just the name the city gave me, not my parents. I was gonna tell you...”
Rarity’s expression fell into impatience. “Out with it.”
“Okay, okay,” Patch began, sitting up straight and nodding while frowning. ”I… first saw you at the Grand Galloping Gala a few years ago. It was one of the most boring nights ever... and then you and your friends showed up and… well, you turned it on its head! I was amazed! And the way you stood up to Blueblood was… I mean, I was blown away, really.
“And then, uh... A couple years later I was in Manehattan with my parents to see this pretentious fashion show. I mean-... no offense.”
Patch’s breath was beginning to outrun him again, but Rarity had caught hers, and was standing up to the sound of the creaking wood that made Patch speed up his story.
“But then you came out again! And I saw your… insane line of hotel wear, and it was… just… hilarious! I couldn't wait anymore.”
Rarity frowned and narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s been months since Manehattan,” she pointed out.
"Well yeah, I was originally just going to ask you to the bar with me... but then I spoke with one of your friends first. Princess Twilight? And I decided that you would much rather go out with…” He groaned and rolled his eyes before continuing. “…Somepony like Boulevard Brand instead of me.
"Y’see, she gave me the idea for the ball, but then she told me to be... careful. Careful about when the ball was, about when I approached you, about how I approached you, what I should be wearing... She can really talk, that one. Uhhh- anyways, she said you're always super busy and always taking on more things than you can carry, but end up carrying it all anyway. She said you might not even have the time for a night out. She was even nice enough to tell me specific times that'd be good to approach you, and they were all like... ten minute intervals."
It was Rarity’s turn to gaze solemnly at the floor. She tried to think of the busy period he spoke of, but nothing jumped out at her. She was stuck on how her friend the princess appeared to be more approachable than herself.
"So I came up with this idea. I thought maybe the only way you would spend some time with me would be if I… got rid of all the expectations of who I was. Then maybe you would be able to... let loose, I guess. So, I… stood… you up."
Rarity winced. She stood straighter and glared at Patch, pushing on the floor a few times beneath her impatiently. Patch stepped back and stuttered as she approached him with her horn flared.
“L-l-look, I know I shoulda been up front with you, but… you can’t tell me that would've worked! This is who I am! Not Boulevard Brand, not the formal, polite stallion that everypony expects from me. I’m Patchwork! I- ah!”
The collar of his jacket sprung stiff below his neck, and before he could fight it, Rarity pulled him close—anger suddenly vanishing from her face. She then placed her hoof under his chin and met his lips with hers. Patchwork forced out a smothered sound and widened his eyes, but fluttered them closed after the first few seconds in her grasp. Rarity took a moment to exhale before breaking away, leaving her hoof on his chin and grinning proudly at the fugue state she had left him in. She backed away and waited for Patchwork to come back to reality. When he opened his eyes, he chuckled and rubbed his neck.
“I didn't… have you pegged for a first-date kisser.”
“I’m not,” Rarity stated.
“Huh? But-”
“But this wasn't a date, was it Patch?”
“Wha-… why not? I thought it was.”
“But were you looking for a date? Or were you looking for a dance partner?”
The words collided with Patchwork instantly. His shoulders dropped and his chin followed, and he gave an exasperated sigh. Rarity tilted her head and watched as an injured smile stretched across his face. “I can’t have both?” he awkwardly chided.
“That depends on your priority, darling. Oh, dear me… your suit.”
Patch sprung to his hooves and scanned his clothing. The bow tie was on the floor across the room, and the shoulders of his suit had both torn and slumped down his shoulders in the excitement. “Oh, wow! That’s a new one.”
Rarity focused her concentration on the tears, drawing the slacked sleeves closer to the seam with her magic. She smirked and floated her torn ribbon towards him, separating it into twenty threads and feeding two of them through the ruptured suit. She separated the slack from the stitches and stood back to admire her work. The small red threads were now accenting both of his forelegs, giving the suit a new look altogether. Patch chuckled and gaped at his new clothes.
Suddenly, an alarm rang in Rarity’s mind. She threw a hoof to the zipper in her dress and stepped back in surprise and panic.
“Oh!”
“It’s over there,” Patch said, gesturing to the gleaming silver pocket watch on the floor next to the covered paintings.
Rarity sighed and floated it off the floor, dusting it and widening her eyes at the time. She made just one step to Patchwork so she could give him a tight hug. “I’m afraid my night is over, Patchwork,” she announced.
“Can I see you again?” he sighed as he returned the hug.
“Why, certainly!" she replied, breaking free faster than he expected. "Come by the Carousel Boutique sometime – I'm sure you know where it is – and we can discuss that partnership, hmm? I haven't given up on you yet, mister."
Patch jokingly rolled his eyes at his date as she turned and ran towards the stairs. “What happened to her?” he called out in an attempt to extend the night just a little more.
“To whom?” Rarity replied.
“Babalon.”
“Oh, she’s just a story, Patchwork. However, it does end by saying that although she was not an entirely popular member of the land… hers is the castle that remains.”
With a wink, Rarity disappeared below the floor, and silence came back to accompany the lonely, young stallion. He loudly blew air out of his pursed lips and looked up at the glaring lights solemnly. He made a tiny whisper that he had to get to work. But then a thought crossed his mind, the smile reappeared on his face, and he closed his eyes.
