The strange and delightful romance of Rarity and Spike, as told in the style of a Wes Anderson film. A pretentious love story with lots of shots of ponies staring out windows in the rain.
The strange and delightful romance of Rarity and Spike, as told in the style of a Wes Anderson film. A pretentious love story with lots of shots of ponies staring out windows in the rain.
Given prompt: Spike and Rarity. SPARITY! Spike has to be aged. A massage has to be present. Any race is allowed (original pony/dragon or human or anthro).
This is a story about expectations: the expectations we impose on others and inflict on ourselves. It is about realizing a mare’s life isn’t over when she turns fifty. It is about defying cliche. It is about being able to see the flaws in your elders while still respecting them for their accomplishments.
It is also a story about Spike and Rarity having a torrid, passionate romance, though that was mostly for the sake of having something to put on the cover art. Philosophical musings about social pressure are a bit too abstract to put on a book jacket, but a dragon ripping a mare’s clothes off moves copies.
As a story that is mostly about Spike, Rarity, and the troubles of elderly mares, it naturally starts with none of the above. Not Spike, not Rarity, and not an elderly mare, but rather a quite young mare. Rainbow Dash, seventeen years old and perfect in every way.
Every mare wishes they were like her. Young mares compete for her attention and jealously slander her behind her back. Old mares sigh when she passes and think, oh, to look that good again! But they know in their hearts that even at her age, they were not her equal.
That is to say, she is of impeccable construction. Her flanks are taut and shapely. Her wide hips give her a feminine shimmy when she walks, and her powerful wings ensure she doesn’t walk much. Those who gaze upon her think back to old legends of amazon warriors, pegasi mares with wing muscles like rocks and eyes like smoldering coals. Her mane is all the colors of the rainbow.
Ponies say her father was a hero. She projects with her bearing that one day, she will be a hero too. Like the pressure felt during a great thunderstorm, her presence dominates every room she enters. She is intelligent, self-educated, determined. She does not hope for a better life, she commands it.
And yet when we find her, she is not flying high, she is not performing heroic deeds, she is sitting on a leather couch in a cold and damp apartment, where the feeling in the air is not that of the upcoming storm, but of a persistent and deep sadness.
The wallpaper is peeling, full of bubbles where water has infiltrated into the building during past rainstorms. Every wall has a shelf, and every shelf is crammed with a hundred nick-nacks, junk saved from the trash and half-repaired. Laundry has been left over an ironing board to dry. An old TV with a cracked case and a missing knob sits opposite the couch. So too is the whole apartment visible, for a door frame that is too narrow and slightly crooked leads to the kitchen, another to the bedroom. These are the only three rooms in the apartment, for they must share a bathroom up the hall with ten others.
A tiny, plastic Hearth's Warming tree sits atop the television. The gifts under it are likewise plastic, and attached to the tree, both parts having been made in the same high pressure-injection mold. The paint is starting to chip off, and the paint flecks contain lead.
In this environment of enveloping despair, Rainbow labors in silence. She sits on that cold and damp couch, wrapped in her father’s bomber jacket, and she reads student essays. They are the essays of students who were accepted or rejected from the Equestrian Military Academy, filled with red ink in the margins. Her own application essay, written with a pencil, sits on a folding table before her. Though the essays of past years are partially faded, their paper warped and curled by exposure to water, she reads them with the reverence of a priestess reviewing sacred texts.
Only by understanding the failures and successes of others can she ensure her own success. She notes those turns of phrase, those rhetorical constructions that earned the reviewer’s red slash, and strikes them from her own writing. She notes those flights of prose that were considered exceptionally meritorious, and alters her own phraseology to match. Her pencil scribbles, and Rainbow is dead to the sound.
Pots and pans clatter in the next room. “Rainbow, have you eaten lunch yet?”
Through the crooked door frame, Rainbow can see the apartment’s kitchen. She can see a sink filled with pots and pans, a dirty table, a chipped countertop. The look of that sink evokes dozens of memories, every instance of that refrain, “Ah! We are so lazy. We must be better about washing,” coupled with the truth that the pots and pans stay in the sink because the collapsing cabinets no longer have room for them. But she cannot see the mare who has spoken to her.
“I’ll eat later,” she says, turning back to her essay, seeking that state of intense focus she had a moment ago. She attempts to become the task before her, to achieve the unity of mind akin to meditation.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything? I was making something. I could make you a sandwich,” the voice says, and Rainbow’s focus shatters. “I worry about you. You exercise so much and you eat like a bird. I don’t want you becoming anorexic.”
The mare who before eighteen has received two offers to be a model, and dozens of offers to be an escort, keeps the derision out of her voice as she answers, “I promise you, I’m not anorexic.” But, she fails. The words cut.
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” says the mare in the other room, like she hadn’t heard.
“Please don’t.”
Something in the kitchen bustles, rustles, and there in the doorframe appears the other mare. She is past fifty, her once blue coat having shifted towards gray. Her mane and tail are the garish orange of cheap artificial dyes. She is overweight, borderline obese, her wing muscles faded from lack of use. Her primary feathers have unseemly ruffles from not being properly preened, and she wears a dress like a circus tent.
She is Rainbow’s mother. “Well, with Hearth’s Warming dinner at your aunt’s, our next meal won’t be until seven. I thought you’d want to eat something before then.”
“I am not hungry,” she says, without inflection.
The old mare frowns. “You’ve been working on that essay all morning. Can you take a break?”
“I will take a break when it’s done,” Rainbow says.
“Well.” The frown deepens, and as it does, the lines in her mother’s face stand out in sharp contrast. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
There are two kinds of children: those who hope they can live how their parents lived, and those who fear that they can. Rainbow is in this second group, and like all frightened animals are inclined to do, she lashes out.
“You can go away and let me focus,” Rainbow says, and she can see on the old mare’s face how the words hurt. She can see the flinch, the faint narrowing of the eyes, the hunching of that old mare’s posture.
“Oh,” says her mother. “Right. No. Sorry. I won’t bother you.”
She vanishes away then into the kitchen, but Rainbow finds that even in the absence of distractions, her focus will not return. The letters on the page dance away from her. The patterns in the corrections that were once so clear fade, and leave the marks seemingly arbitrary. Her gaze wanders.
Over the TV hangs a collection of family pictures, and the case with her father’s medals. Rainbow often stared at those medals when she was a filly, imagining all her friends and neighbors would be impressed to see them. But they were issued by a country that no longer exists, and have names that foreigners find quaint: the Order of the Eagle, the Golden Feather for Valor, the Laurels of Merit, all the way down to the one that killed him, Hero to All Zubrowka.
Ponies, her friends have said, would find the medals more impressive if they were made of real gold. But her father won them after the nation could no longer afford gold, and in any case, everypony sells medals when they need food money. The couch would fetch a significantly better price than the case of medals. Ponies appreciate good leather more than they do valor.
She rubs her face. She turns back to her essay and pretends to read, but there is no teacher to fool and she cannot even fool herself. She stretches her wings. She paces. She kicks and gnashes and bites. And finally, with nothing else to do, she picks up a pair of pliers.
They are the pliers they keep on top of the TV, since one of the knobs is broken. With them, she can grasp the metal rod to which the knob was supposed to connect, and manually rotate it until the TV comes on. The second knob, the one they still have, selects the channel -- they have ten to choose from. Blurry pictures in bleeding technicolor rush past as she turns the dial: news, sports, some subtitled foreign show about cowponies. At the six-o-clock position, the face of a dragon appears on the screen.
It is a strange thing, alien and reptilian, but full of expression. The young mare’s magenta eyes focus, sharpen in recognition. For a moment, she hesitates.
But then she sits back on the couch, leather creaking under her, and she watches.
“No, no. This is all wrong. You don’t understand what happened at all,” Spike says.
An adult dragon, Spike is the size of two fully loaded wagons placed end to end. He could punch through a concrete wall, cut steel with his claws, burn whole towns with his breath. He has to be interviewed in an aircraft hangar, because he can no longer fit in any building made for ponies. His purple scales are harder than stone, his green frill a row of deadly spikes. His claws are blades, his teeth spears.
He sits like a cat, holding something in his talons, the camera zoomed back enough that both Spike and the interviewer can be clearly seen. The interviewer is an old griffon in tweed, projecting a professorial air. A wing-backed leather chair has been dragged in for him to sit. He has a pad of notes, and considers it as Spike speaks.
“You see, me,” Spike gestures at himself. “A dragon. Huge, intimidating, physical. You see me, a director. I get my name at the start of the movie. I get to accept awards. And if I can be crass for a moment, you see me, a male, known for being a hit with the ladies. Equestria’s most eligible dragon for five years, show up to events with a beautiful actress hanging on each wing, all that. You look at all these things that society says make me powerful and impressive and say, he’s an important dragon. He’s clever. He’s special.”
Spike laughs. “But I’m not. I have a naturally obedient, quiet disposition. I like being told what to do. As a baby dragon, I was a unicorn’s familiar for years. As a drake, before I got into acting, I had a job cleaning furnaces in the power plant and I was happy there. As an actor, I was happy to get any role at all. Commercials, action roles, whatever. On my own, I would never have done anything special. I was unremarkable.”
His talons shift, and the object he’s holding briefly becomes partially visible to the camera -- something white. “But unremarkable creatures can go on to do amazing things, when they’re inspired by the right pony. A pony who maybe doesn’t have all those superficial qualities you’re looking for, to tell you they’re high-status. But who is, in fact, special in a way that really matters. So respectfully, I know putting a dragon in your interview gets views, but you’re addressing these questions to the wrong creature.”
He points at the camera, straight down the lens. “Could you zoom in, please?”
The image switches to another camera partway through its zoom. From this other angle, the object the dragon is holding is clearly visible. He cradles it, like one would cradle a kitten, hold something small and wonderful and precious.
It is an old mare -- a unicorn, with a snow-white coat and a mane that still has some purple visible under the grey. She is fit for her age, though she cannot conceal the lines that have spread at the corners of her eyes, or the weakness that has settled into her muscles. She is wrapped in an elegant fur cloak, the height of fashion, complete with a scarf of silver threads. Her cutie mark is half visible—something with diamonds.
“I’m ready for my closeup!” Rarity grins, winking at the camera. Her age does nothing to diminish her enthusiasm, the vigor behind her words.
“Oh, very well,” the interviewer concedes. “Rarity, perhaps you would like to tell us the story of how Spike became Equestria’s first dragon film director?”
“And still with the focus on him!” Rarity says, voice all sing-song. “A dragon has one little harem and suddenly he’s all anypony wants to talk about. But if you insist. Spike and I met auditioning for Calico Road. He-”
The interviewer lifts a talon to interrupt: “Could you explain to our viewers what Calico Road was? It’s not a well known film.”
“It was a romance,” Rarity says, pausing to gather herself. “Between a young dragon and an elderly unicorn. I was interviewing as the female lead, Spike for the male lead. They brought Spike and I in to see if we had the chemistry, and of course, we did. I confess when he first walked in, I didn’t think much of him. Oh look, another drake with a cutting jawline who spends so much time in the gym you can see the muscles under his scales. I thought he was a thirst trap for dimwitted female audiences.”
“I was,” Spike interjects, bluntly.
“Well, yes, you were.” Rarity waggles her head in reluctant acknowledgment. “But you could also act. I mean really act. You could sell subtle, convey attraction with a glance. We spent half the audition riffing off eachother, it was absolutely marvelous.”
“I grew up watching Rarity’s movies,” Spike says. The image shifts, as the camerapony struggles to keep both Rarity and his head clearly in the picture. His size makes the shot difficult. “I saw her in Pony Fancy, Strait-Jockies, The Gorgeous Hussar, The Mare Wore Red. All of them. She was an inspiration to me. A big part of the reason I became an actor. So, obviously I was delighted to think I might get to star alongside her. When I went into the audition I expected her to be pulling me along, but everything just worked. The whole time I was screaming in my head, ‘holy horsefeathers, Rarity likes me, she really likes me.’”
“I could tell,” Rarity offers as an aside to Spike, with a small smirk. “But you did do very well, and it was great fun. And this is where things go off the rails, because the director of Calico Road was a minotaur named Iron Will. And after our audition, Iron Will tells Spike he’s got the part, and tells me that they think I’m perfect to play Spike’s mother. Now, I wasn’t thrilled with that, but I’d been rejected for star roles before. I don’t fly off the handle or go into hysterics. But then Iron Will took a moment to explain why he felt a mare over forty shouldn’t star in any romance. He expressed his views on elderly mares generally, you might say.”
“I see,” the interviewer grimaces. “And how did you react?”
“I called him a ■■■■-■■■■■■!” The bleep sound effect has not finished before the interviewer sits up bolt straight in his chair, hacking and wheezing as he chokes on his own spit. When the electronic sound ends, Rarity’s laughter becomes audible. “I told him he ■■■■■ ■■■■■■ and that his mother ■■■■■■ a ■■■■ and that he was the result of this unnatural union, continuing his family’s ■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ways and spreading his pestilence across the world.”
“Miss Rarity!” the interview snaps. “Mind your language, please! You know we can’t run that.”
“Oh, it’s okay.” Rarity offers a small smile, her voice like flowing honey. “You can bleep it.”
Spike quickly moves to take back control of the interview, clearing his throat and sending a waft of smoke down towards the stage. “She did say that though. To the director’s face, even. Naturally she gets thrown out.”
“And you followed her?”
For a moment, Spike does not answer, his expression impassive. “No,” Spike says. “What the director said about her was sexist and repulsive, but I didn’t follow her. I didn’t leave on my own. I stood there and did nothing. Because the director was in charge. You can’t sass the director, that’s not how it works. And if Rarity had just left, I’d have stayed there and done Calico Road and that would have been it. But on her way out, Rarity looked back over her shoulder at me and said, ‘so are you coming or not’? Like… I could hear the disappointment in her voice that I’d stay after that.”
He shrugs. “And then I followed her out, right on her tail.”
“Sounds like she must have projected a lot of confidence.”
A momentary stillness hangs between them, which the interviewer does not interrupt. Rarity’s expression flickers, and when she laughs again it is a stiffer sound: “Yes, I suppose I did, didn’t I? But I wasn’t feeling it. Certainly not at the time. I didn’t want to admit it, but what Iron Will said, it rattled me. I’ve always…” She flicks a hair. “Prided myself on my appearance. As a young mare, I got some striking roles. And being told… well. That those days were over. I don’t mean to be superficial, you understand. But it cut deep. And when I told Spike to come with me, inside I was screaming. Don’t say no. Don’t make a fool out of me. Don’t let me be the only one who leaves over this.”
The griffon taps his pad with his pencil. “But he did leave with you.”
“He did,” she agrees, warmth gradually returning to her smile. “It was very decent of him.”
“And then what happened?”
“We walked out of the building,” Rarity says. “Him on my tail, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now. Do we just go home? Do I thank him? Does he think I’m actually attracted to dragons? Which I wasn’t but it felt so awkward to tell him so. But I couldn’t just walk away from him after he stuck his neck out for me. And then I see a bar across the street, I ask him…”
Rarity cranes her neck up, to look into the eyes of the enormous dragon that holds her: “Want to get a drink?”
Rarity’s Recounting of What Happened Between Her and Spike the Dragon at Pie Pans Bar and Grill, in Downtown Ponywood, 1019, as Dramatized by Channel 7: Cultural Programming
They both walked into the bar. They each sat. Neither of them knew what to talk about, so Rarity decided to talk about Iron Will.
“—dim-witted, ignorant, bull-headed, moronic, goat-fucking son of a horses fat ass!” she snarled, pulling a cigarette out of her compact and lighting it with a spark off her horn. “Too old. Too old compared to what? The cows he has shoved under his desk?”
Spike nodded with a vague sort of sympathy, nondescript in its support for her cause. Rarity took a draw and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I bet he—”
“Ma’am,” the bartender’s voice cut in across the conversation. “This is a no-smoking bar.”
They sat together there, side by side at the bartop. Though he was not yet a fully grown adult, Spike was at that point too large to use chairs. He sat on the floor in front of the bar, and even so disadvantaged, towered over both the counter and the other patrons. A young dragon in his prime, his frame bulged with muscle, and his wings grew in as wide as he was tall. His claws had the power to bend steel, but were as yet fine enough to pick up delicate glassware without scratching it. With Rarity seated on a barstool, her head was at the level of his broad chest, and he had to look down at the top of her head.
From that vantage, he could see the grey hairs beneath her purple hair-dye. Though she kept herself in excellent physical shape for her age, one could not deny that Rarity was well past her youth. She had lines around her eyes, creases in her skin. She had to dye her mane to keep it purple, dye her coat to keep it white, get her cutie mark recolored with spray-inks to keep it sharp. She wore elegant wire-frame glasses, and while they were both artful and aesthetic, without them she was functionally blind.
“City ordinance, ma’am,” the bartender said. “I’m going to need you to put that out.”
Rarity took a long drag off the cigarette, burning it down nearly to the butt, then blew out a long shaft of smoke and extinguished the remains of it in her cocktail. “Well then, I’m going to need a new drink. What’s Spike drinking? Is that whiskey? I’ll have that. And some pretzels.”
The bartender gave her a dirty look, and Spike tried to mitigate the situation as best he could, pleading with his eyes, promising a large tip if they didn’t get thrown out. The stodgy earth pony behind the bar finally relented, wandering off to find a new glass and the right bottle.
And then the conversation lulled. Rarity looked up at Spike, but he said nothing. He continued to stare at her in that reptilian way, eyes wide, expression flat. A powerful awkwardness settled over Rarity, though for the life of her she couldn’t tell if it was mutual.
“So…” she eventually managed. “He’s the worst.”
“Yes,” Spike agreed, without real inflection.
And then the silence came again. Rarity stared down at the bar, and tapped it with a hoof.
“So what do you think?” she asked, when the stillness grew too much. The bartender appeared, laying a napkin in front of her, and upon it a glass of whiskey. A bowl of pretzels soon followed.
“I think Iron Will is a fool not to take you. You’re an amazing actress,” Spike answered, his tone shifting into a soft, affable admiration. “It’s funny to meet you in person. You’re not at all like I pictured. Your performance on screen is always so subtle, so nuanced. You play these demure and rich and interesting characters. I always imagined that if I met you, you’d be prim and proper.”
“Oh, darling!” Rarity said, seamlessly shifting to an upper-class Canterlot accent. She turned up her muzzle, bounced her elegantly coiffed mane with the tip of a hoof. “Surely you must know that a lady is always prim and proper.”
“Okay, you’re making fun of me? But yes,” Spike grinned, showing off a mouth full of fangs. “I’ve never been able to do accents.”
“What you do is harder than petty impressions,” Rarity assured him. “You’re good. You really are. Today would have been marvelous if not for the ending.”
“Have you, um…” Spike cleared his throat. “Seen any of my work?”
“You were Draco Varga on Breaking Horses.” Rarity said. “I liked it. And I heard you were in… oh. What was it? One of the new Marevel movies?”
“I was Green Knight in Captain Equestria: The Crystal Solider.”
“That must have paid well.”
“I bought a house, yeah,” Spike nodded. “Or, well. A lair. A cave. I’ll rattle around in it now, but you know. I’ll grow into it.”
Another lull fell. Rarity sipped her whiskey, spat it out, and had to have it explained to her that Fireball Whiskey was not just whiskey with dragon-friendly branding, but had cinnamon in it. She gagged and ordered a Mai Tai. Spike drank her whiskey for her.
“Why are you here then?” Rarity asked, turning back, craning her neck to look up at him. “Forgive me, but it doesn’t seem like your sort of role. Looking at your past performances, I would never have guessed you’d be such a good fit.”
“My agent thought it would be good for my career. Show some range.” He shrugged, and Rarity lowered her head again. “What about you? Why did you want to do an… interspecies romance? That feels weird to say.”
“Oh, I loved the book.” Rarity answered, pausing when she saw Spike’s puzzled expression. “The book. Calico Road. You did know this movie was based on a book?”
“I don’t think they mentioned that today, did they?”
“I was in the script,” Rarity pressed, dry. “Did you read the script?”
“I read the parts they told me were going to be in the audition.”
“I…” Rarity announced, with an air of finality. “Hate you.”
Lighting her horn, she telekinetically lifted a single pretzel from the bowl, holding it up to Spike as though for inspection. With only the most ladylike grace, she crushed it between her teeth, continuing to talk while eating. “Calico Road is the story of a dragon named Torch who falls in love with a sixty-five year old unicorn dressmaker named Chrysanthemum. The whole town mocks and belittles them for their relationship, but true love shines through, and they have a beautiful romance until her tragic death in a wagon crash. I cried when I read that book, and not like I always cry in book club. I cried sober. It was a masterpiece, and I was so excited to hear it was getting made into a movie.”
“Only now Chrysanthemum is getting played by Applejack,” Spike deadpanned.
“And Torch is getting played by you!” Rarity replied, tone turning chirpy and upbeat on a dime. “Why, this could be the greatest acting challenge of your and Applejack’s careers! How will you ever convince audiences that your character could possibly be interested in the mare who was Equestria’s most eligible bachelorette two years running? Will you two have the screen chemistry, the sheer animal magnetism, to make ponies believe that a young and active mare could have romantic feelings for a stallion with a tongue as long as her tail?”
“First,” Spike said, “dragon tongues don’t work that way. Second, I’m not a stallion, I’m a drake. And third, I’m not playing Torch, because I flipped off the director and walked out after you, remember? It happened like twenty minutes ago; that’s how we came to be in this bar?”
“Oh,” Rarity said. “Right.”
And then it was awkward again. Rarity stared down into her drink.
“I hope…” She paused, stumbling for the words. “You said this was for your career. I hope it wasn’t important to—”
“I’ll be fine,” Spike said. “Really, don’t worry about it. They’re already talking about three new Captain Equestria movies. I’m not going to run out of work.”
“No,” Rarity said, eyes still downcast. She pulled out her compact, extracted a second cigarette, then remembered the bartender’s earlier words and put it back away with a snarl. “No, I was… thoughtless, today. You don’t need to ruin your career on—”
“Why did you like Calico Road so much?” Spike smoothly cut her off, lifting a talon to rest it beside her on the bartop. “The way you described it, honestly, it sounds like Oscar bait. Like, the movie would have lots of dramatic shots of ponies staring out windows in the rain, voiceovers, scenes that are just there for the symbolism.”
Rarity let out a long breath, and a slow count of three passed before she reacted to Spike at all. But then her head abruptly snapped up, and she smiled like all was right in the world. “Well first, you’d know what shots it had if you’d read the script. Second—”
“Does it have a dramatic shot of a pony staring out the window in the rain?”
“None of your fucking business!” Rarity answered, weaponizing her cheerfulness into a concentrated beam of flowers and sunshine. “Second, I liked it because it isn’t cheap. Chrysanthemum isn’t into Torch simply because he’s hot, pun intended. She’s into him because she’s desperately, quietly lonely and sad and she doesn’t know why. She wants her life to be different, but she doesn’t know what different looks like. And here comes this…”
Rarity gestured up at Spike. “Here comes this drake. Whom she isn’t sure she likes. She isn’t sure she likes him personally, and she isn’t sure she’s into dragons, but he certainly is different. The first time she kisses him, it isn’t love, it isn’t even lust. She is just as repulsed by the idea of a dragon and a pony making love as the rest of the town. Her kissing him is a profound act of self-destruction. It’s her giving up on her life and saying she’ll do anything, embrace anything, perform the most repulsive acts, as long as she doesn’t have to be here, and now, and herself.”
Rarity picked up her drink, considering it then, and with one swing downed the rest of her Mai Tai. “And her family is absolutely awful to her, and so is the rest of the town, and so is Torch’s mother. They’re cruel, and their cruelty drives her further into Torch’s arms because she believes she deserves it. And the fact that he is genuinely kind and loving, the fact that she enjoys his warmth, it sneaks up on her. The first time she says ‘I love you,’ she says it just to make him happy. To make him shut up and stop pestering her. And then she realizes it’s true and weeps into his shoulder.”
With her telekinesis, she dropped twenty bits on the counter. “Calico Road is a romance between a dragon and a pony written by an author who I truely, honestly believe did not have a fetish for interspecies couples. It is passionate, it is torrid, it is unapologetically sexual, and it is even at points enticing, but it is not about Torch and Chrysanthemum being a hot couple. It is a love letter, it is an expression of empathy and understanding, to ponies who want something out of life that they aren’t supposed to have. Who know that there’s something they deeply, truly need to be happy, and know that society will never understand or approve of them having it.”
Then she snapped open her compact, pulled out a cigarette, and gestured at the bar’s exit: “Fuck I need a smoke.”
It had started to drizzle while they were inside, though the sky remained inexplicably sunny, without a cloud in sight. Though the rain was so mild it wouldn’t even have extinguished Rarity’s cigarette, Spike still stretched a wing over her like an umbrella.
He also offered to light it with his dragon flame. She declined. A spark from her horn lit the thing, and the smoke pooled under the curve of Spike’s wing, an upside-down sea.
“So that… explanation back there,” Spike cleared his throat, “it sounded personal.”
“It was.” Rarity leaned hard against the outside of the bar. “Calico Road meant something to me.”
She let out a long breath. “You should go back there and tell Iron Will you’re sorry. He’d take you back. You didn’t flip him off.”
Spike frowned, his brow furrowed. “Why?”
“It would be good for your career. And you and Applejack…” Rarity’s eyes flicked to the casting office across the street. “You and Applejack could do a tremendous romance together. You’re both marvelous actors. You’re both subtle, and clever, and you know how to sell all the little details.”
Silence hung between them.
“No,” Spike said. “I don’t think we could. Applejack is good and all, you’re right. But she’s also a thirty-four year old earth pony who has an ass like a roll of bits and a tail you could just shove your face into and breathe deep.”
The vulgarity caught Rarity off-guard, eliciting a coughing fit. Spike smiled until she was done, then went on: “Look, um… forgive me for being dirty here. But if Applejack and I are the stars of that movie? It’ll be a thirst-trap fetish film. Because it’ll be a movie about a young, strong, fit, wide-hipped conventionally attractive earth pony banging a dragon who looks like he bench presses cars and sweats testosterone. No matter how subtly we act, no matter how good the script, ponies will show up because they have a fetish for watching mares get nailed by creatures twice their size. And that’s it. I’m sorry but it’s true.”
He shrugged: “At your age, it wouldn’t be appropriate to cast you as a twenty-something kung-fu fighting SMILE operative. And at her age, it’s not appropriate to cast Applejack for Calico Road. She would ruin it.”
Rarity turned away from Spike, levitating her cigarette next to her head. Smoke danced in lines above her, and she was for a time unable to speak. “Do you have a fetish for ponies or something?”
“Yes,” Spike answered. “But there are easier ways to ask Applejack out. And it wouldn’t be a good movie.”
“No,” Rarity agreed. “It wouldn’t.”
And then, truely, they were out of things to say—and Rarity found she suddenly didn’t want to be there. Her throat got tight, and her ears burned. “I’m going to get a cab. Sorry, I should go home.”
“Sure,” Spike said. “Sure. But uh… hey. If you ever… do, want to do a movie together, call me, okay? I really do admire your work. And the way Iron Will treated you today was shitty.”
Rarity mumbled some words of thanks. They exchanged phone numbers. And life went on. Spike went home, flew to the only gym in Hollywood with a dragon-accessible yard. He skimmed another script before bed, and worked on his singing lessons. He called his agent, and a number of friends, about being in a Joss Whepony webseries called Fire: The Musical! He did paid autographs for fans of his role in Captain Equestria.
Two weeks passed, and he never texted her. Maybe he forgot about her. Maybe he thought she was only being polite, and didn’t want to talk to him.
Regardless, at the end of that time, she called him. The dragon-sized phone in his lair rang, a machine the size of a kitchen table, which used a full-size television as a screen and was operated by blocky mechanical buttons built into the wall. Its clamoring bell filled his cave, and he pulled a knife switch and flipped two switches to answer.
At least it had caller-ID though, so he knew who it was. “Hey, Rarity!” he answered her all sing-song. “How’s it going? Did you want to hang out sometime?”
“No.” Rarity said, and for a moment the line was silent. “I’d like you to look at a script.”
Like Fine Wine, Initial Draft Screenplay, Scene 3 (Never Shot)
INT. CRUMBLING DRAGON FORTRESS - DRAGON’S LAIR -- DAY
A mighty dragon is seen reclining on top of a hoard of gold and gems. It is INFERNO. Flames rise from the corners of the room and the air is swelteringly hot. Distant screams and the yapping of diamond dog minions can be heard in the distance.
PANNING BACKWARDS - Hoofsteps become audible, and a mare emerges from the bottom of the frame walking towards the dragon, as the camera follows her. It is PLACE HOLDER, an older unicorn mare with three gold bars for a cutie mark.
PLACE HOLDER (V.O.) I’ll never forget the first time I saw him.
CENTERED SHOT OF DRAGON A lowly diamond dog minion begs for its life as it yaps at its master. Inferno visibly loses his patience. He devours the minion in a single bite, sending the others scrambling.
INTERCUT BETWEEN PLACE HOLDER AND INFERNO Place Holder approaches the hoard and stares up at the dragon as he swallows the minion. Shot emphasizes other cowering creatures, and sight of the minion traveling down the dragon’s long throat.
PLACE HOLDER (V.O.) I should have been terrified. He might have devoured me then and there, if things had gone differently. I think, on some level, I hoped he would.
LOW SHOT OF ROOM SO PLACEHOLDER IS VISIBLE LOOKING UP AT INFERNO Place Holder stops, and Inferno laughs at her.
INFERNO What brings you here, little wizard?
PLACE HOLDER I’m not a wizard.
SHOT FROM SIDE Inferno leans down to look Place Holder in the eye, the motion emphasizing the size difference between them. His lizard tongue flicks the air in front of her.
INFERNO Oh? Are you a knight? A mighty warrior? Have you come to strike me down?
INTERCUT BETWEEN PLACE HOLDER AND INFERNO Place Holder cringes, fear showing on her face. She subconsciously leans away from the dragon and flinches.
PLACE HOLDER I’m not a knight. Or a warrior. Or a thief or any of those other fantasy cliches. I’m a goldsmith. I ran a jewelry shop.
Inferno chuckles, seeming to delight in her discomfort.
INFERNO You say you aren’t a thief. But what does a goldsmith want with me, if not my hoard?
PLACE HOLDER I know dragons hoard gold.
SHOT OF PLACE HOLDER FROM THE SIDE Place Holder turns to show her flanks to INFERNO. Her cutie mark, three gold bars, is clearly visible.
PLACE HOLDER I want you to collect me!
Rarity’s Recounting of What Happened Between Her and Spike the Dragon at Pie Pans Bar and Grill, in Downtown Ponywood, 1019, as Dramatized by Channel 7: Cultural Programming
Spike flipped through the script, as he and Rarity sat together at the bartop. The tip of one of his claws made a soft sigh as the pages slid over it, like the sound of the sea. The first ten pages or so were filled with red pen marks—after that, he’d stopped bothering.
“It’s fine,” he said, without inflection. He was good at that, Rarity realized. He was good at saying things without inflection, without expression, not poker faced or carefully neutral, but simply devoid of content. He could make things forgettable, and he often did.
“Oh, it’s only ‘fine’?” she asked with a dry wit. “I thought I’d written a real pager turner, with how you flipped straight to the end. I thought you were so eager to get to the big finale you simply couldn’t wait.”
“Well,” he picked up his whiskey, stalling for time with a slow sip. “I don’t really judge scripts. It’s hard for me to picture.”
“Spike,” Rarity said, her tone firm. “I appreciate that you respect me as an actress and so you are trying to be kind right now, but spit it out.”
A grimace appeared on Rarity’s face as she saw Spike struggle. Whatever he had to say was bad enough he needed time to work up to it. Even when he did speak, he did so hesitantly: “I have some nitpicks.”
“Such as?”
“Well…” He turned back to the beginning, flipping through the pages he had extensively marked. “You refer to the diamond dogs here with the M-word. I’m really not comfortable with that.”
“The M…” Rarity frowned. “Oh, mini-”
“Ah ah!” Spike hurriedly raised a talon. “Look, just… don’t ever use that word, okay? Dragons enslaved diamond dogs for hundreds of years. Tortured them, burnt them alive, used them as cannon fodder. And pony knights did not make the situation better. They looked at all those innocent creatures as one big speed bump on the way to fighting their dragon master. And that word was used by ponies and dragons alike to say diamond dogs aren’t real people. So maybe just... just avoid it in general. Forever.”
“I could call them servants instead,” Rarity suggested. “The dragon’s servants. Would that be better?”
“Um. No, not really.” Spike laughed a stiff laugh, reaching up to scratch his muzzle. “Because a lazy, violent, powerful dragon waited upon by diamond dogs is a stereotype. It’s a really, really racist stereotype, actually. Diamond dogs and dragons don’t agree on much, but that’s one cliche we’d both really like to move past.”
“I could make the servants ponies,” Rarity said, indicating some of the offending lines. “I mean, that’s a simple find/replace. Dogs to horses.”
“Well, sure, you could,” Spike said, his voice picking up. “But are you going to keep the scene where Inferno eats one of his servants? Pony, dog, whatever, it’s weird to introduce the male lead in your romance by having him commit casual first degree murder and cannibalism. Like, how would you enjoy a romance that opens with the male lead slitting a mare’s throat and casually tossing her body to one side?”
Rarity’s eyes turned away from the script, and she stared down into her untouched Mai Tai, but the dam behind Spike’s jaws had broken, and the words spilled out regardless. “And also, there’s a lot of very basic factual errors here. Dragons don’t hoard gold. We don’t. We hoard gems. It really feels like maybe you wrote this script for a protagonist who had three gems for a cutie mark, then realized that was a little on the nose and made a last moment substitution.”
Spike’s tone grew steadily sharper as he continued, his eyes glaring down at the script like it had offended him. “And I’m sorry, but did you have to cram every dragon-related fetish into this movie? Just in your opening, you’ve got extreme size difference, vore, fire breath… is owning a pony BDSM? I don’t know. I’m going to say BDSM. If you have him threaten to spank her you complete the row and win pervert bingo.”
“Right.” Rarity said. “Right.”
“You said you wanted me to play Inferno. I’m not big enough to eat a pony in one bite. Even if I didn’t have a no-cannibalism policy, you’re three or four bites at least. And if I flip through here, there’s definitely a sex scene where she enjoys being owned and dominated by a dragon. Right? Like I haven’t seen it yet, but it’s in here.”
“You’ve made your point,” she snapped, eyes boring a hole down through her glass. “I need a smoke.”
And without waiting for him to reply, without touching her drink, she got up from the table and stormed outside.
Spike did not follow her right away, but when he eventually went back out, he found her trying to hail a cab and light a cigarette at the same time, completely failing at both tasks. She was outwardly too anxious, too upset to concentrate, and could not summon her magical focus. Her horn would not spark.
“Here, let me,” Spike said, reaching for the cigarette, but she yanked it away.
“I’m fine,” she snapped at him, expression wounded, voice filled with bitterness. “I’m sorry for wasting your time today.”
“You didn’t waste my time,” Spike insisted. “I just don’t understand why you’re writing a bodice-ripper. It feels like a novel a pony would find in the airport, and the cover would be a dragon picking up a mare in one talon and ripping her dress off with the other. It was borderline pornographic.”
“I guess I’m not as good a writer as I am an actress,” Rarity said, waving her hoof at another taxi. It sped by without stopping. “All there is to it. I should stick to what I know.”
“I refuse to believe you’re that bad.” Spike paused a moment, regarding her with a sidelong glance. “Tell me what you were trying to accomplish there. What’s the… emotional arc of the movie?”
“Place Holder feels worthless after her husband divorces her and she loses her jewelry business, so she travels to the dragonlands so a dragon can eat her.” Rarity said, waving at another taxi. Not in service. “It’s a suicide attempt, basically. But she ends up falling in love with Inferno, and feels better about herself, and he lets her go. That’s it. And yes, fine. It’s stupid. I was trying!”
“So,” Spike said. “Place Holder feels bad because a stallion rejected her. But then she feels better because, forgive my bluntness, a richer, hotter, more powerful male says she’s great? It sounds like Place Holder derives a lot of her sense of self-worth from what creatures with dicks think about her.”
“Oh, you’re my therapist now?” Rarity snaps, raising a hoof for a vehicle that, upon closer inspection, was merely a yellow wagon and not a taxi.
“I’m just… saying,” Spike let out a heavy sigh. “If I was writing it, I would say, Place Holder needs to find confidence inside herself. Not just find a big lizard as a rebound date after her husband leaves her. And for the love of Celestia, please just let me fly you home. You don’t need a cab.”
“I also don’t need to be clinging to your back for dear life a thousand feet in the air.”
“Rarity,” Spike craned his long, serpentine neck around to face her head-on. “Rarity.”
She froze, looking up at him, staring into his eyes.
With a little puff of flame from one nostril, he lit her cigarette.
“Were you trying to be cool there?” she asked, a laugh escaping her. “Was that an attempt to be suave? That came out of your nose. That’s the dragon equivalent of you hocking a booger.”
She waved again, and that time, a taxi pulled over for her. “Look, you’re… this was a mistake. I know, this wasn’t good. I’m sorry I dragged you into this. Never meet your heroes. You and Applejack would make a great movie.”
“Rarity, I—”
But Rarity piled into the cab and shut the door on him, and the cabbie pulled away.
Spike’s Recounting of a Story Rarity Told Him in 1021 About What Happened after She Left Pie Pans Bar and Grill, in Downtown Ponywood, 1019, Captured in Spike’s Autobiography, as Dramatized by Channel 7: Cultural Programming
Rarity had a gift for describing creatures.
“—arrogant, overmuscled, thick-skulled, empty-headed, hopeless, heartless, loveless, weird-ass fanboy stalker lizard!” she concluded describing Spike to her masseuse. “And the way dragons treated your people historically is terrible, and I’m very sympathetic.”
Rarity’s masseuse, a diamond dog named Quartz Strike, nodded. “Yes. Lift your legs?”
Lying flat on the massage table, head nestled in a ring-shaped pillow, Rarity lifted her forelegs above her head. Quartz Strike grabbed each one in turn, and sharply yanked and twisted. A loud pop came from each of Rarity’s shoulders, and she involuntarily whinnied. When the spasm passed, her whole body relaxed into the table, and a long nicker escaped her.
Diamond Hands was, in Rarity’s opinion, the finest massage parlor in all of Hollywood. Neither unicorn telekinesis nor earth pony strength had the combination of force and dexterity to enable really good massage. Diamond dogs had that market secured. Plus, the walls had ivy, and it always smelled like fresh-cut grass.
“Being cruel to a first draft is bad enough,” Rarity said, as Quartz Strike worked his elbows into her shoulders. “Creativity needs room to flourish. Like a budding flower, it cannot survive harsh criticism in the early stage. And his remarks were hardly constructive. But he didn’t stop there! He had to resort to personal attacks.”
Quartz Strike nodded again. Strong fingers pressed down into the flesh of her shoulders, working tension out of muscle and tendon alike. He was silent for a time, focusing on his work, and only once there were no knots remaining did he say: “Yes. Lower your legs?”
So Rarity lowered her back legs over the end of the table, and he grabbed each one, worked his elbows into her flanks, and rolled her hips. At her age, past fifty, her hips were not what they once were. A chorus of cracks and pops followed Quartz’s ministrations.
“He dared to imply that my self-esteem derives from what males think of me! Not even stallions, males, generally,” she let out a sharp snort. “Like I’ll feel good about myself if an abyssinian tomcat compliments my mane. Oh, sure, he’s a walking, talking cat, but he has a dick and two balls so that means he can tell me I’m valid.”
Quartz Strike worked his fingers along her spine, finding the knots of tense muscle and slowly working them out.
“Of course,” Rarity said. “Capper is an abyssian. And a tomcat. So I suppose I did… well, he flirted with me quite a bit, you know. And he was very charming.”
“Yes,” Quartz Strike said. With strong motions of his fingers, he pressed into the muscles around her spine, eliciting an involuntary shiver, and driving Rarity to arch her back.
“And,” Rarity continued, “as I think about that, I realize you are a walking talking dog, and in context that might have come across as a bit racist. And I’m realizing that maybe Spike had some valid points there, and I have some subconscious bias.”
“Turn your head?” Quartz Strike asked, and Rarity did. With two hands, he carefully worked the kinks out of her neck.
“I know you’re being polite,” she sighed. “Can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” Quartz Strike said. “Lower your tail?”
As he worked the tension out of her dock, careful always to keep his hands above the line of her tail, Rarity blew out another breath. “And maybe it was a bit… lurid. I don’t know. Calico Road was a masterpiece. It won a dozen awards for creative fiction. Am I an award-winning author? Have I ever written a novel, or even a script? No. I punched Dragon/Pony Romance into Ask Luna and clicked on the first few results.”
Quartz Strike applied his shoulder to the small of Rarity’s back, working out a tight knot of muscles there.
“And maybe I have a bit of a thing for dragons too. So what. That isn’t a crime. Some of those romance stories weren't bad.”
“Yes,” Quartz said, working his elbow in deep, pushing into the tense muscle below. Rarity’s ribs were driven into the table, and she grunted with the strain.
“And…” she growled out the word, only to draw in a sudden breath when Quartz released the pressure on her back. “I suppose I wanted… I never disliked doing scenes like that, you know? I’m a good actress. I can do nuance, complexity, subtlety! But not every scene needs to be subtle. Sometimes a scene is just there to show off how good the lead actress looks in a sheer dress.”
Satisfied that her spine was seen to, Quartz Strike turned around to the small rolling table that sat next to his work area. Upon it was an array of hoof-cleaning tools, balms, lotions, towels, and a series of hot stones kept hot over a small flame. It was one of the lotion bottles he selected first, putting several spritzes of it into his hands and rubbing it into her back.
It made her smell like lavender. It sank into her muscles.
“Of course,” she said “in The Gorgeous Hussar I was the actual gorgeous hussar. The fact that I looked good enough that two stallions would go to war over me was the point of the movie.”
Once her back was covered in lotion, the towel was next. Quartz Strike picked up a thin, white cloth and laid it over Rarity like a saddle cloth. The fabric quickly adhered to the sticky lotion, clinging tight to her coat. Upon that surface he began to place hot stones, the fabric and lotion both diffusing their heat, turning singular hot points into a warm sensation that extended throughout her body.
“Spike said he liked my acting, and he specifically mentioned The Gorgeous Hussar as one of his favorites. And he said he was into ponies the first time we met. Do you think that’s it? Do you think he likes me because he’s crushing on me?”
“Turn your head?” Quartz Strike asked, and Rarity turned her head the other way.
“He did imply he wanted to ask Applejack out,” Rarity said, voice picking up. “And in our audition, I felt his interest. I thought he was just a gifted actor, but maybe he wasn’t acting! Maybe he’s a dragon pervert who’s into ponies. We did our audition together before he said he liked my movies. That has to be it. Why else would he have followed me out?”
Silence hung as Quartz Strike gently massaged the base of her neck, working out the kinks there with the utmost care.
“I mean…” Rarity said, but what she meant went unsaid. As she trailed into a long silence, Quartz took each of her hooves one at a time, rolling her ankles to crack the joints. An inspection of the underside of her hooves revealed dirt and abrasion, and so he turned to his hoof cleaning tools. Made of shiny chrome, they resembled nothing so much as dentists tools, built on a larger scale.
“He might just like my acting though,” she said. “I shouldn’t…”
There was a chair across the room. Quartz Strike pulled it up, so he could sit next to Rarity while he worked. Starting with her front-right hoof, he lifted it and began to carefully scrape the dirt off her frog, scraping the spurs and abrasions off the inside of the nail itself.
“Am I…” Rarity shut her eyes. “Am I really saying the only reason a talented young actor would like my work is because he thinks I’m hot? Is that how I see myself?” Her tail lashed. “Oh my fucking darling, is Spike right? Do I view myself through the male gaze? Deep in my heart, do I still think I’m still the young mare who had to give a stallion a horn-job to get a part acting in a pizza commercial?”
“Yes,” Quartz Strike said, as he used a square of sandpaper to carefully polish the inside of her hoof.
“Holy fuck,” Rarity said, breathless. “How long has that landmine been buried in my subconscious? A stallion rejects me, and the first thing I do is run off and write a borderline pornographic romance whose only purpose is to let me be sexy to the audience? That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m the one who did it!”
“Yes,” Quartz Strike said, shifting to the front-left hoof and beginning the same procedure.
“No, Spike has been a true friend to me. He told me the truth when I didn’t want to hear it.” Rarity yanked her hoof out of Quartz Strike’s grasp, sharply shoving herself up off the massage table. Hot stones tumbled to the floor, and her towel saddlecloth hung half-on, half-off her back, stuck in place by the remaining lotion. “I will not be this… this weepy actress cliche! This depressing parody of an old mare! I will show the world that my best years are still ahead of me, and that any stallion, or male who feels threatened by an older mare in a romance is too much of a dickless wonder for me to give a shit about what they think!”
Left with no hoof to work on, and his hot stones scattered all over the floor, Quartz Strike blinked and stared. He was obviously taken aback, not sure how to react. Finally, he pointed at the clock: “Session is one and one half hour.”
“I’m sorry, Quartz!” Rarity gripped his shoulder. “But I can’t stay! My destiny is calling me!”
Quartz paused. “Qué?”
“No, of course I won’t be paying for the full time. I’m leaving early.”
“That is not how it happened!” Rarity insisted, while repeatedly punching Spike in the chest. She had the muscles of a seventy-year old unicorn, and the blows had as much impact upon his scales as a mosquito hitting a windshield. “You put that in your autobiography!? You make me look like an ignorant racist lunatic!”
“We actually have several scenes from Spike’s autobiography prepared,” the interviewer said. “For instance, I understand you two frequented a comedy club for several weeks before--”
Like Fine Wine, Revised Screenplay, Scene 44 (Never Shot)
EXT. SNOWY FOREST -- DAY
KILN and STAND TALL lie side by side on a picnic blanket. It is the middle of winter, but the snow has all melted in a circle around Kiln. Despite not having a jacket or other protection, Stand Tall appears warm. She is sweaty, and lies tucked into his side.
KILN Happy Hearthswarming.
Stand Tall laughs amiably, and snuggles closer into his side.
STAND TALL This is way better than spending the holiday with my sister.
Kiln runs a claw down Stand Tall’s belly, a quietly sensual gesture.
KILN Was it good for you?
Stand Tall smiles, and gives a little half laugh. She seems amused by the question.
STAND TALL My everything hurts. I haven’t had a workout like that in a decade. I feel like my hips are going to fall off.
Kiln flinches, this was obviously not the answer he was hoping for. Stand Tall notices his discomfort, and kisses his chest.
STAND TALL You’re the biggest stallion I’ve ever been with. How’s that?
SIDE SHOT LOW TO THE GROUND Camera is placed so that Kiln’s face is not clearly visible. Stand Tall is the focus of the shot, and Kiln is visible only by the bulk of his chest rising behind her. The two are silent for a time.
STAND TALL What’s the appeal?
The camera remains on Stand Tall as Kiln answers.
KILN Of.. you?
STAND TALL Of fucking a creature so much smaller than you, you could have literally killed me if you weren’t careful. I don’t think I could stay aroused if I was worried about murdering my partner. And even if you were careful… that was the wildest sex I’ve ever had. But for you, that must have been very gentle. You must have been careful.
Kiln’s breathing is audible in the background as Stand Tall waits for an answer. Her eyes flick left and right, but she does not turn to look at him.
KILN I’m afraid.
INTERCUT SIDE SHOTS OF KILN AND STAND TALL The camera flips back and forth so that whichever one isn’t talking is in the shot. The audience sees only their reactions to what is being said.
Stand Tall speaks softly.
STAND TALL That you aren’t good enough for a dragoness? Am I ‘easy mode’?
Kiln’s face twists, and he looks off.
Camera cuts back to Stand Tall for Kiln to speak. His tone is hurt.
KILN That’s not fair. I care about you.
Stand Tall laughs and smiles, nuzzling into his side.
STAND TALL I know. I know you care about me. I care about you too. But… I’m going to say something now. And maybe it’s bitchy. And if it is I’m sorry, but I need to say it.
I think you want me because I’m the mare… the female, that can’t arm wrestle you, and will always think your fire breath is cool, and is certainly going to be impressed with your dick. I’m the creature you can pin down, and feel how big and powerful you are.
I think I make you feel kind, because you’re magnanimous to me with your strength.
I think you want to be a leader of dragons, a great warrior like in the old stories. But deep in your heart you know you aren’t. You’re not strong enough, your flames aren’t hot enough, and when it comes down to it, you aren’t vicious enough.
You’ve been nothing but kind to me. I don’t think you’d ever hurt me.
But I think on some level, you wish you were the sort of creature who could hurt me. That you had it in your heart to pin me down and use your strength to control me.
Kiln lies with a flat expression for most of Stand Tall’s monologue. It is only clear at the end how much it has hurt him. He looks like he might cry, but avoids making any sound. He turns away from her so only the camera can see.
He does not speak, and so she speaks again.
STAND TALL I don’t think that’s anything to be ashamed of. I don’t judge you for it. And I’m not better.
I used you. To get back at my husband. He dumps me, so I show up with a stallion -- dragon, whatever -- with muscles like rocks and a body built to twice my size. Oh, you want to leave me for a mare half my age? I’m leaving you for a stallion who fucks me so hard the ground shakes.
And that wasn’t fair to you.
The camera cuts back to Stand Tall, as Kiln shifts behind her.
KILN I knew. I know. I didn’t judge you for it either.
She frowns, a quiet sadness visible in her eyes.
KILN Do you… want…?
The camera cuts back to Kiln, as Stand Tall drapes a hoof over him. She crawls up onto his belly, so both of them are visible in the shot. She stares down into his eyes.
STAND TALL If you can… want me, for me. If you can want me because of who I am. Then yes, I would like to keep going out with you.
But if all we are to you is how dating a pony makes you feel, if any other small, frail mare would get your gemstones off equally well and that’s… all we are.
Then no.
We both deserve better than that.
The camera switches sides to keep the shot pattern, but they both remain clearly visible in frame.
KILN I don’t know how I can answer that question.
I don’t know who you are when you’re not mad. Since we’ve met, all you’ve talked about is your husband, and your store, and your foals, and everything he took from you.
You were pretty obvious about using me, you know. Master of deception you ain’t.
Stand Tall laughs, like what was just said was absurd.
STAND TALL Yeah, I guess I was.
She looks down at his chest and brushes it with a hoof.
STAND TALL I fly kites. I used to fly kites every week, until my husband told me it was childish. You like kites?
KILN Dragons don’t really do kites.
Stand Tall slides off Kiln’s belly and rises to her hooves. She looks him in the eye with a determined expression.
STAND TALL Well I’m going to go fly one. And if you want join me, some company would be nice.
But if you don’t, that’s fine too.
Rarity’s Recounting of What Happened Between Her and Spike the Dragon at Pie Pans Bar and Grill, in Downtown Ponywood, 1019, as Dramatized by Channel 7: Cultural Programming
Spike did not flip through the script. He read it, one page a time, until he got to the end. Then he laid it on the bartop, and picked up his fireball whiskey. “It needs edits. A bunch of the scenes are too fast paced. Dialogue feels unrealistic at points. It’s a bit overdramatic.”
He took a slow drink from his whiskey. There was a reason few bars served dragons. What for Spike was a glass of whiskey would for a pony have been called a pint of whiskey, and it came in a special glass to accommodate his muzzle. As mature dragons lacked proper lips, Spike had to carefully hold the glass to his teeth and pour the liquid down his throat.
Rarity watched the whole thing -- his claws, his fangs. She watched the muscles in his throat sway as the liquid ran down his long neck.
Until the glass went back to the bartop. “But it’s a romance. It’s a real romance. It’s got soul. And you wrote a dragon who I think dragon viewers will actually like. Or, who I want to play. Kiln is… sympathetic. I get that anxiety too. That every dragon is supposed to be a beast and a warrior. I told you I’m interested in mares, and damn if I haven’t wondered in my head if I’m exactly like him. If I’m only into ponies because I feel like I can push you around.”
“Do you think you are?” Rarity asked, blinking once.
“No,” Spike smiled. “Sorry. I’m just a pervert. My head is wired wrong and I like mammals. Nothing more to it than that.”
“Methinks the drake doth protest too much,” Rarity giggled, lifting her own cocktail. “But I’m glad you like it. I really am. Thank you for giving me another chance.”
“Yeah, well…” Spike’s tone took a downturn. “I hate to be the buzzkill, but I need to ask, what happens now? Are you going to submit your script to a studio? Because to be honest I don’t see this going over well.”
“A story about a fifty-year old mare having a loveless, emotionally unhealthy fling with a dragon, where she abandons her family to go fuck him on Hearth’s Warming day, only for them to realize they were using eachother and break up?” Rarity tilted her head to the side. “You don’t see that being a blockbuster hit?”
“I’m saying I think you’ll have trouble getting a director to take this.”
“Yeah,” Rarity agreed. “I think I would too. A lot of trouble.”
Silence hung between them for a long time. Rarity picked up her drink and chugged it.
“But luckily,” she said. “I’ve been in this game a bit longer than you. I have an Oscar. And royalties from a number of actual blockbuster hits.”
“So you think they’ll take it based on your name?”
“No,” Rarity said, looking Spike in the eye. “I think I’m stupid rich, and I’m just going to do it myself. I have the kind of money where I can bankroll my own movie. Hire a director, rent a studio. All that. And I’m doing it. I already told my agent. I’m making a movie.”
“And…” Spike shut the script, and stared back at her. “What? You need me to be the male lead? You need me to play Kiln?”
“Oh, Spike!” Rarity tittered. “I don’t need you. Dragon’s like you are a bit a dozen in this city. I can always find some big, overmuscled, strong-chinned young drake to play Kiln.” Her laugh faded, and she looked at him more seriously. “But it would mean a lot to me if you did play him. You were… very kind to me, at a moment I needed kindness.”
“I barely did anything. I got drinks with you and told you your script sucked.”
“You reminded me of something important,” Rarity said. She rose from their table, pulled out a cigarette, and with a hoof flicked back her elegantly coiffured mane. “I’m fabulous. Now come on. Let’s go.”
“And,” the interviewer indicates Rarity with a pencil, “you hired Spike to be your director?”
“No, absolutely not.” Rarity waves away the suggestion. “Why would I have? He’d never directed before. I hired Photo Finish, but three weeks into filming she was in a carriage accident and got severe concussion. She had to drop out. So then I hired Thorax, but he wanted all sorts of changes to the script to fit the changeling notion of ‘love.’ After three weeks I had to say it wasn’t working out and we let him go, and with all the staff standing around, the studio rented, we’re burning money doing nothing. So I finally tell Spike, have at it. Let’s shoot a few of these scenes and see if it looks decent.”
“A decision that was heavily criticized at the time,” the interviewer says. “Reviewers described the film’s editing and cinematography as ‘amateurish’ and Like Fine Wine launched to mediocre reviews. As I understand it, you didn’t even make back your initial investment.”
“And yet,” Spike cuts in. “You’re here interviewing us about it twenty years later, because reviewers can write what they like, but audiences know a good movie. Like Fine Wine was popular with the dragon community from day one. Kiln was an inspiration to many young drakes living in pony society. It became a cult hit in certain pony circles. And its popularity has only grown with time. Two years ago, the Draco-Equestrian society recognized it as a film of cultural significance, we’re releasing the extended director’s cut on laserdisc this fall.”
“So, nothing you’d change if you could do it all again?” The interviewer’s tone turns interrogative, even faintly critical. “Even though it was your first time directing and you had no experience?”
“Like Fine Wine was a masterpiece, and the reviewers who panned it wouldn’t know good cinematography if it bit them—”
“No, darling,” Rarity laughs, reaching back to run a hoof over Spike’s talons. “Only one of us can swear or they won’t run the interview. And let’s not get too proud of ourselves. We had a shoestring budget and the forest scenes were shot in a rented public park, so I didn’t think we’d win an Oscar for Best Visual Effects. But yes, Spike did good work. And I’m very glad to have launched his career as an independent director.”
The interviewer arches a single bushy eyebrow. “It does seem like the way you told that story, it was mostly about you.”
“It was mostly about her,” Spike cuts in, his tone firm. “If I’d told the story like it was mostly about me, you wouldn’t have questioned it. If you want a story where I’m the main character, you can ask me about the first time I directed a film without her, or about learning to be a director generally. There were a lot of times there I had to fly on my own. But, Like Fine Wine? No. I was her supporting cast there.”
“You’re very modest,” the interviewer turns his attention to Spike, offering a small nod.
“Spike is many things,” Rarity cuts in. “But modest is not one of them. As a director, he is nitpicky and demanding, insisting that what is on the film perfectly matches the vision in his head. As a friend, he’s high-maintenance. And as he alluded to his love life earlier, I promise, he absolutely does not hesitate to walk up to the most attractive mare in the room and introduce himself as the most attractive stallion. He has a very high appraisal of his own abilities.”
She hesitates a moment, then continues: “But I think that, all too often, we confuse self-confidence and insecurity, because the insecure are the ones who constantly talk about how great they are. Real self-confidence means being comfortable not being the most important creature in the room. Being comfortable with not being in charge. Not being impressive. That’s what Spike is.”
“It sounds like insecurity was a theme of your early relationship,” the interviewer says. “If that’s not too personal a question.”
“Well first,” Rarity answers, voice quick and sing-song, “it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Second, it is absolutely too personal, and you should be ashamed. But third, yes. Yes, you’re right.”
She lapses into silence for a moment, and neither Spike nor the interviewer interrupts. Her eyes turn directly to the camera, a little faux-pas, seemingly beneath such an experienced actor. The moment is uncomfortable for all involved, as her eyes seem to bore directly through the screen.
“I’m past the age where I can have children,” she says, snapping out of the moment and turning back to the interviewer. “I never wanted foals. I never wanted a family. I don’t feel I missed any opportunity or… or regret that decision. But on the day I realized that opportunity had passed me, I cried. Because I don’t have the sort of real, quiet self-confidence Spike has. I have the insecure kind.”
She reaches into her pocket for a cigarette, pulls out a toothpick, glances down at it and sighs. “Most ponies have that kind of self-confidence. Particularly, I think, most mares. Society conditions us to have it. I was often told growing up that the thing in the world I most had to look forward to was finding a stallion and getting pregnant. And while I rejected that when I became an adult, I suppose on some level I saw myself like a petulant teenager, stomping her hoof and insisting she knows better than her elders.”
Spike reaches down to her as she continues, his talons scratching her back like she was his cat. She doesn’t seem to mind: “There’s no way to escape it. If a mare is ugly, she’s told she’s worth less for being ugly. If she’s beautiful, she’s told she’s lucky for it. That she’ll be successful in life because of her appearance. Either way, the message is the same. A mare’s worth lies in the eyes of others. And when everypony around you says something, it’s hard not to start believing it.”
She reaches a hoof back to pause the motion of Spike’s talons, resting her hoof over him there. “We’re told that if a stallion doesn’t use his strength to hurt us, that makes him a gentleman. We’re told we should be grateful. Instead of being told that’s the basic ■■■■■■■ minimum to be not be a miserable ■■■■-■■■■ of a creature. We’re told to welcome the attention, and if we don’t, that we’re ingrates.”
She removes her hoof, and asides to Spike: “Though you can continue dear, my back was getting itchy.”
That makes a small round of laughter pass through the room, all three creatures chuckling. It dispels the tension, before Rarity turns back to the topic at hoof. “My first ever acting role was in a pizza commercial. And yes, your dramatization got that right. I gave a stallion a ■■■■-■■■ to get it. And I felt lucky. Ugly mares wouldn’t have gotten that opportunity. Looking back, it was all so toxic. I suppose it always has been. Iron…”
She trails off for several seconds, evidently lost in thought. “What Iron Will said that day didn’t hurt me because he said it. I’ve been insulted by stallions, mares, diamond dogs, dragons, griffons, changelings, alicorns, and not given a ■■■■. A minotaur insulting me isn’t any different. What he said hurt me because I already believed it. That when a mare turns fifty, her life is over. No more romance, no more foals, no more attention. All the things that my parents told me were important are over. All that’s left is knitting or cooking or some other ■■■■■■■■ hobby, and sitting around my apartment waiting for death.”
“Well,” the interviewer says, “that’s hardly what you’ve done.”
“No, I think I’ve had some spectacular adventures since I turned fifty,” Rarity agrees. “Filming Like Fine Wine not the least among them. But that movie wasn’t to flip Iron Will off. It wasn’t about spite or revenge, though I admit I did enjoy both of those aspects a great deal. It was about the fact that… confidence isn’t something Iron Will, or Spike, or anypony else could give me. It’s something that has to be found internally. Spike helped with that. He was very kind. He supported me when I needed support. But in the end that was all he could do. Support. I had to be the one to actually…”
She then runs out of things to say, trailing off for the third time. The interviewer cuts in: “I thought you gave a wonderful performance.”
“Thank you,” Rarity nods, a soft smile on her face. “I was proud of it.”
“If I can ask one more question, while we’re on this personal thread,” the interviewer says, flicking his eyes between Rarity and Spike. “You two are obviously quite close. And you met while shooting a film about a romance between a dragon and a pony. Was there ever anything between you two?”
“Ah,” Spike clears his throat. “A gentledrake never tells.”
“Because the answer is ‘no,’” Rarity cuts in, turning her head to look up at him. “We have been platonic friends for twenty years.”
“I mean, we’ve flirted.”
“Have we? When? Specifically?” she counters, eyes narrow.
“You are right now letting me hold you like a cat and scratch your haunches,” he insists, tone turning faintly defensive “This a very public display of physical affection!”
“Well it’s all well and good that you feel affection for me, Spike,” she snorts and tosses her mane. “But that simply isn’t the same as us being in a romantic relationship.”
“What are you doing?” Spike lowers his head and his voice to speak to Rarity directly. “Why are you doing this on camera?”
“Why am I doing it?” Rarity grouses, hoof over her heart. “You had a harem! Do you need me as another notch on your bedpost? Is that critical to your ego?”
“I did not have a harem, I was in a polyamorous relationship.”
“When a stallion,” she hisses through her teeth, “is in a ‘polyamorous relationship’ with three smoking hot young mares who drip off him in public, we call that a harem. I’m glad that this is a thing for you but-”
Abruptly, the picture cuts out, replaced with scrolling text.
EVERYTHING IN THE CAPITAL IS FINE
DUE TO A ROUTINE TEST OF TRANSMISSION EQUIPMENT, ALL TV AND RADIO STATIONS WILL PLAY THE NATIONAL ANTHEM UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
Rainbow Dash sits on a leather couch in a cold and dank apartment and stares at nothing.
“The orchard is radiant with spring blossom, Paradise on earth it is to see!”
Her face is illuminated by the flickering white glow of a test image on the TV screen. It’s harsh, sterile light casts the room into sharp contrast. It drowns natural colors, turns the leather of the couch black, the shelves into apartments for ghosts.
“And this is that beautiful land, “Oh Zubrowka, Zubrowka!”
Her essay to the Equestrian Military Academy, written on fresh white paper, shines like a torch in that artificial light. It glows, so much that it burns her eyes to gaze directly upon it. It is a radiant surmise of her future, and it demands her attention.
“Glorious nation of the Pegasi! And with a strength that frustrates all defiance!”
She reaches out, picks up the pliers, and uses them to turn the prong where the TV’s power knob is supposed to be. It goes off with a click, the sound abruptly stops, and the room is again dim. She rises then, past the top of the TV, past the plastic christmas tree covered in lead paint, until she is eye to eye with her father’s medal case.
Around the case are hung pictures of their family. Rainbow Dash is in a few of them, a buck-toothed little filly clinging to her parents legs. But there are no pictures with her and her father where she is older than five, and precious few before that. Most of the pictures are of her mother and father as a couple.
Her mother and father flying. Her mother and father at their wedding. Her mother and father canoeing. Her mother and father at the observatory, at Blue Square, toasting to their health at some party. Them in that very apartment, when it was new and full of hope, looking at the camera and smiling.
There are several of her father alone, mostly formal photographs of him in his uniform. But, she notes, none of her mother alone.
So she returns to the kitchen, and finds her mother -- that old, overweight, anxious mare who wears a dress like a circus tent -- working on the day’s crossword puzzle. “Oh,” she says, looking up when Rainbow enters. “Are you done already?”
Rainbow finds her throat is thick. It is difficult for her to speak. “What did you do to celebrate Hearth's Warming before you met dad?”
Her mother shrugs, confused. “Oh, you know your grandparents. They insisted on having all the foals together every holiday.”
“You didn’t marry dad at seventeen,” Rainbow insists, voice oddly stilted. “You went to college. So there was a time when you were not a child, and were not living with grandma and grandpa, and were not married. During that time, what did you do to celebrate? I’m curious.”
“Oh.” Her mother frowns. For several seconds, she struggles to retrieve the information, pulling it out of some dusty and little-used archive in her mind. “Well, I… was never much for holidays at that age. I thought they were silly. I would go flying. Sometimes with friends, but sometimes I got a bottle of wine and flew up to the observatory over the campus. I didn’t mind being alone.”
“You flew a lot before you met dad, right?”
“Yes, it’s how we met. Track and Sky.” Her mother tilts her head, growing more perplexed. “But you knew that. Rainbow, is something wrong?”
“I think holidays are silly too,” Rainbow says, suppressing a sniffle. “And I know I can’t drink yet, but I’d love to fly up to the old observatory -- you know, the one on the hills over the park? And just… hang out. You can get wine if you want, I have some money hidden in my boots.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” her mother hesitates. “That’s a long way off. I haven’t flown that far in years. And we have to be back at your aunts by six.”
“Mom,” Rainbow says, voice strained. “I’m not good at… feelings. Or expressing them. But I think that after dad died, you had to work very hard to keep this place. And to keep me safe, and off the street, and keep me from getting into fights and keep my nose out of drugs. And I feel like… maybe doing all that took up your whole life. Your whole life is remembering dad and taking care of me. And I’m about to leave. I’ll always need you as my mother. But I won’t need you to watch over me and pick me up from school and pay our rent and… and all that.”
When Rainbow blinks, tears become visible in the corners of her eyes. “And I feel like by leaving, I’m stealing your life. Like I’m taking everything away from you. And all you’ll do is sit here and wait for me to call. I want to know that after I’m gone, you’ll get into Track and Sky again, and… explore. Or travel. Do something other than the crossword. I want to know you don’t think your life is over because you’re past fifty. I want…”
She bites her lip. “I’m about to be an adult. And I want to get to know you, as an adult, not just like a child knows mom. I want to get you. And… and for Celestia’s sake, you hate Auntie Effie and I do too. She tortures the family every Hearth’s Warming with her sugar cookies. They’re so hard I could crack a tooth and she’s such a pain if you don’t say how much you like them.”
Tears form in the old mare’s eyes, and she rises from her seat, reaching out for Rainbow. The two hug tight in the cramped little kitchen. “Your aunt has always been difficult,” her mother says, words thick. “Rainbow, where did this come from?”
“I uh…” Rainbow sniffles. “I watched a movie. A cheesy one. Very sad and dramatic, lots of shots of ponies staring out windows in the rain.”
“And that made you want to spend time with your mother?” the old mare asks, giving a thin little laugh as she lets Rainbow go. “Well, I won’t question it. You’ll have to fly slow though. I’m not in the… shape I used to be in.”
“I’ll fly laps around you, it’s fine,” Rainbow says. “You can um… tell me stories. From the old days.”
Rainbow gets her good boots and pulls a hooffull of wadded bills out of them. She throws on a scarf over her father’s bomber jacket. Her mother wraps a shawl around herself, and packs crackers and a jar of jam in her saddlebags. One by one, they turn out the apartment lights.
Then they step out, and shut the door behind them.
