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Abdication
From the comfort of one of her Canterlot boutique’s lounge chairs, Rarity scowled into a newspaper at the social page’s biggest headline:
‘Queen’ indeed. She snorted. It made her sound like one of the flamboyantly gay stallions on the Canterlot fashion scene. Oh, and they—whoever ‘they’ were, the author of this piece—absolutely chose that word on purpose, she was beyond sure of it. It could have read ‘Fashion Mogul’ or ‘Fashion Guru’ or maybe ‘Fashion Princess.’
But no. She was a ‘Queen.’
Rarity rolled her eyes. ‘Drama queen’ was what they really meant.
Still, it was hard to be surprised. These kinds of parting shots were par for the course, because it was implicit that there must be skullduggery going on. Why else would anypony ever want to exit the circles of Canterlot high society?
No, in their eyes, there was really only one explanation: those who departed had skeletons in their closet. Of course, everypony did, and everypony knew it—it was just that it was considered good etiquette to depart with dignity ahead of time when it happened, through whatever twist of capricious fate, that an uncloseting was believed to be imminent.
The superb irony here was that she was leaving for herself and there really were no such skeletons making the decision for her.
Other than, of course, the one in plain sight. Simply needing to leave Canterlot and not wanting to bare her private life by admitting to it being for her own mental health was scandal enough. It spoke of discontent, of unhappiness, of ingratitude, of something unsatisfactory about ‘the establishment’ and having ‘made it.’ The scandal of becoming a presumed outcast was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and now the gossip rag vultures would look for any rationale to make it into some sort of narrative of personal impurity, something broken inside her, instead of recognizing their own circular logic of presuming she must be leaving because she was a bad person and she must be a bad person because she was leaving.
It was all such insanity: tormented for staying, punished for making her escape.
Rarity tossed the paper down and hung her head in despair. When would it ever end?
Soon. Soon, she desperately hoped.
Her first commission after arriving back in Ponyville and resettling into the Carousel Boutique was a plain, simple summer sundress. The design was barely more than a bodice and a skirt in plain, light, floral-patterned cotton.
It was nothing like the intricate silk and satin cocktail dresses and ballgowns of Canterlot, and she had a whole two weeks to finish it, and those two weeks were a summertime dream.
In the mornings, she woke up to watch the sunrise and spent an hour just drinking tea and eating a leisurely breakfast while the flowers in the garden unfurled their petals to greet the day. Then once the morning sky was full and bright, she’d sit down at her sewing machine and work by natural light, next to a window, listening to birdsong. In the afternoons, she’d take a long break and sometimes a nap, simply because she could.
And over those two weeks, the sundress felt as if it made itself, all the patterning and cutting and each sewn seam happening on its own somehow, each part in its own time, without needing to be forced along at the frantic panicked pace that had insidiously become second-nature without realizing it until she didn’t have to keep up with it anymore.
It was the commission that made her fall back in love with making clothes.
When Ruby Brooch walked in the door of the Carousel Boutique, Rarity knew in an instant she wasn’t going to like the conversation the Canterlot noblemare was bringing in the door with her.
“When, Miss Rarity, is the Autumn line to be announced?” she demanded. “I know you. You’re cooking something, here in this peasant town, in secret, away from prying eyes. And I want the first serving of whatever it is!”
“There isn’t going to be any Autumn line,” Rarity responded coolly.
Ruby Brooch scowled. “Don’t be coy, Rarity,” she pressed. “I traveled here by train from Canterlot, you know.”
“I’m sorry if there’s been some misunderstanding,” Rarity responded. “But I’m serious.”
Eventually, finally convinced, Ruby stormed out, face as red as her namesake.
Two months ago, Rarity would have had a panic attack.
But now? Now…
She shrugged and went back to her tea.
Fashion Queen to Abdicate, Return to Ponyville Roots
‘Queen’ indeed. She snorted. It made her sound like one of the flamboyantly gay stallions on the Canterlot fashion scene. Oh, and they—whoever ‘they’ were, the author of this piece—absolutely chose that word on purpose, she was beyond sure of it. It could have read ‘Fashion Mogul’ or ‘Fashion Guru’ or maybe ‘Fashion Princess.’
But no. She was a ‘Queen.’
Rarity rolled her eyes. ‘Drama queen’ was what they really meant.
Still, it was hard to be surprised. These kinds of parting shots were par for the course, because it was implicit that there must be skullduggery going on. Why else would anypony ever want to exit the circles of Canterlot high society?
No, in their eyes, there was really only one explanation: those who departed had skeletons in their closet. Of course, everypony did, and everypony knew it—it was just that it was considered good etiquette to depart with dignity ahead of time when it happened, through whatever twist of capricious fate, that an uncloseting was believed to be imminent.
The superb irony here was that she was leaving for herself and there really were no such skeletons making the decision for her.
Other than, of course, the one in plain sight. Simply needing to leave Canterlot and not wanting to bare her private life by admitting to it being for her own mental health was scandal enough. It spoke of discontent, of unhappiness, of ingratitude, of something unsatisfactory about ‘the establishment’ and having ‘made it.’ The scandal of becoming a presumed outcast was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and now the gossip rag vultures would look for any rationale to make it into some sort of narrative of personal impurity, something broken inside her, instead of recognizing their own circular logic of presuming she must be leaving because she was a bad person and she must be a bad person because she was leaving.
It was all such insanity: tormented for staying, punished for making her escape.
Rarity tossed the paper down and hung her head in despair. When would it ever end?
Soon. Soon, she desperately hoped.
Her first commission after arriving back in Ponyville and resettling into the Carousel Boutique was a plain, simple summer sundress. The design was barely more than a bodice and a skirt in plain, light, floral-patterned cotton.
It was nothing like the intricate silk and satin cocktail dresses and ballgowns of Canterlot, and she had a whole two weeks to finish it, and those two weeks were a summertime dream.
In the mornings, she woke up to watch the sunrise and spent an hour just drinking tea and eating a leisurely breakfast while the flowers in the garden unfurled their petals to greet the day. Then once the morning sky was full and bright, she’d sit down at her sewing machine and work by natural light, next to a window, listening to birdsong. In the afternoons, she’d take a long break and sometimes a nap, simply because she could.
And over those two weeks, the sundress felt as if it made itself, all the patterning and cutting and each sewn seam happening on its own somehow, each part in its own time, without needing to be forced along at the frantic panicked pace that had insidiously become second-nature without realizing it until she didn’t have to keep up with it anymore.
It was the commission that made her fall back in love with making clothes.
When Ruby Brooch walked in the door of the Carousel Boutique, Rarity knew in an instant she wasn’t going to like the conversation the Canterlot noblemare was bringing in the door with her.
“When, Miss Rarity, is the Autumn line to be announced?” she demanded. “I know you. You’re cooking something, here in this peasant town, in secret, away from prying eyes. And I want the first serving of whatever it is!”
“There isn’t going to be any Autumn line,” Rarity responded coolly.
Ruby Brooch scowled. “Don’t be coy, Rarity,” she pressed. “I traveled here by train from Canterlot, you know.”
“I’m sorry if there’s been some misunderstanding,” Rarity responded. “But I’m serious.”
Eventually, finally convinced, Ruby stormed out, face as red as her namesake.
Two months ago, Rarity would have had a panic attack.
But now? Now…
She shrugged and went back to her tea.