The Gray Dress
by Kinto Mythostian
Sepyrri sits at the desk in her chambers holding her head in her hands, rabbit ears folded back and her brow furrowed in concentration as she struggles her way through her textbook. The heavy tome had been written by the Academy's Founders, each of them expounding their own experiences and understandings of what it meant to be Noble. The text is dense, repetitive, and riddled with new and unfamiliar words that Sepyrri struggles to understand. There is no glossary or index.
She wishes she could discuss the material with her peers from her arrival group, but their attitude towards her has gone from benign ignorance to deliberate avoidance; outside of the classroom she hardly sees them at all. It has been two weeks since their first tour of the campus and the incident at the abattoir - a new word they had all learned that day - and it affected them each differently. Ciwwhim's penance had separated her from the group for a whole day and the white rabbit had returned almost catatonic and prone to sudden fits of crying, each outburst earning her no sympathy but only more penance; her clique rapidly collapsed, but as the social order recoalesced around new centers Sepyrri still found herself on the outside. She got the impression they all blamed her for what had happened to Ciwwhim, and Sepyrri was not entirely sure they were wrong.
For her own part in the events of the day, Sepyrri had earned only a sharp warning to not disobey her instructors and an extra shift of janitorial duty. She did not understand why she had been treated so leniently in comparison.
The things she had seen that day lingered in Sepyrri's mind. Just thinking about it makes her heartbeat quicken and provokes a strange... /heaviness/ in her gut. She finds it impossible to form words to express what she had felt as she watched the black horse die. She had not been frightened or repulsed, and yet she was certain she should have been, that that would have been the /normal/ reaction; instead she had been entranced, and fascinated, and-and-... With no one to confide in, she buried herself in the textbook, chapters ahead of their assigned reading, hoping that the wise words of the revered founders could somehow offer her guidance. She reads the same paragraphs over and over, and yet their meaning eludes her, like trying to read fog. She moans in frustration, her tail flicking in agitation and her fingers clutching at her temples.
There is a knock at the door and Sepyrri, startled but thankful for the interruption, abandons her fruitless study and stands. Taking a brief pause to verify everything is in proper order with her informal uniform - white sleeves snug to the wrists, Gray jumper neat and presentable - she pads across the room in her stockings, puzzling over who could possibly want to visit her. She opens the door. Her ears and tail leap upright in alarm.
Standing there are the three girls she has thought about more than any others over the past two weeks: Martingale the vixen, Atkeelathit the human, and Czahana the goat, but dressed now in their velvet formal uniforms in Yellow, Light Blue, and Dark Blue, respectively; they each hold a parcel wrapped in brown paper in their arms.
Just like she had done the last time she had seen them, Sepyrri freezes, struck utterly tharn.
"Good morning, Sepyrri," Martingale says kindly; she pronounces her name perfectly.
"G-g-good morning," Sepyrri stutters, and curtseys awkwardly, reaching to grab the skirt of her Gray jumper to lift it and missing. The rabbit can already feel herself anxiously growing hot under the close-fitting collar of her sweater. They are so beautiful and poised, and here she is, plain and awkward. "What are you doing here?" she says without thinking and is immediately acutely conscious of how rude it is to address sister devotees in such a way. "I'm s-sorry..." she starts to sputter and lapses back into ashamed silence.
"It's all right," Martingale soothes, "We have brought something for you."
It is Czahana who speaks now. "I volunteer in the seamstress workshop. I recognized your name on the assignment sheet, and I told my friends, and, we - the three of us - thought it would be nice to see how you are settling in, and to deliver this personally."
Sepyrri's gaze flickers from their faces down to the parcels in their arms. Was that...?
"Your formal uniform is finished, Sepyrri, and ready for you," Czahana finishes, and holds out her parcel.
Sepyrri stares, unable to move.
"Go on," Czahana encourages, smiling.
Hesitantly, Sepyrri takes the offered package. She carefully unties the string and begins to pull back the paper, and gasps at the first tantalizing glimpse of intricate white lace and immaculate Gray velvet secreted within. Reverently she unwraps the rest of the parcel, the paper falling away to reveal her new dress, neatly folded, shimmering in the light. She cradles it in her arms, staring at it. It is more beautiful than she imagined. This... is for her?
"Would you like to put it on?" Atkeelathit suggests.
"What? /Now?/" Sepyrri stutters.
"Go ahead. We want to see you in it," Martingale says, "You'll need these, too," she nods to Atkeelathit's parcel and holds out her own as well.
"Y-yes. Yes. Of course. Yes, I will!" the words tumble out of Sepyrri's mouth. She eagerly gathers the other parcels into her arms with the velvet dress and starts backing towards her dressing room. "It, um, it might take me... some time..."
"Take as much time as you need. We will wait."
"Oh! Please come in. You can wait in my room. Here. Um. Thank you!" Sepyrri blurts, belatedly remembering her manners. Ears flushing red, she turns and bolts into her dressing room, swiftly closing the door behind her.
Heart pounding and hands shaking, she mounts the dress on a hanger and set the other two parcels on the bench. Opening them, she finds one has the sentrile underdress and the other has the stockings and fresh underwear; the inside of the paper wrappings have helpful hand-drawn step-by-step instructions to guide her through her first time donning such an outfit. She looks them over, absorbing them, committing them to memory, and picks up each piece of clothing one at a time, feeling the weight and texture in her hands, holding them against her body, a stunned smile on her face the entire time.
Sepyrri cannot wait any longer. She strips off her informal uniform as quickly as she dares, but still taking the time to put it away neatly. She brushes her black and brown fur smooth to give herself a suitable foundation. She slips on the underwear, white and perfectly plain, but fresh and clean.
And then she stops, and stands, and stares. Her formal uniform is there before her, ready and waiting. Sepyrri feels herself poised on some great precipice. She knows in her heart her life will never be the same after she puts it on. She shivers, though not from cold despite her state of undress. The familiar feeling of fear creeps over her.
This is silly, she tries telling herself, why should she be afraid? They are just clothes. And yet even as she thinks it Sepyrri knows it is not true. This dress is more than that. It is a promise. A statement of faith. A physical expression of everything it means to be Noble.
The dress seems to be staring back, judging her, watching to see what she will do.
She must do this properly. She must make herself worthy. Some of the words she had read just this morning rise to the surface of her mind, their meaning suddenly clear: She was not Noble because she wore the dress; she wore the dress because she was Noble. The dress did not make her Noble; she made the dress Noble.
Unbidden, the memory of her first day comes to her again. She had been afraid then, and she had Chosen to not let fear decide her path.
She had pet the horse.
She will Choose to wear this dress, and live Nobly.
Sepyrri takes a deep breath through her nose and lets it out slowly through her mouth. She repeats this several more times, forcing her body under her own control. Her heartbeat calms. Her trembling stops.
Resolved, she steels herself and reaches for the stockings.
Right leg first. The thick Gray sentrile slides on surprisingly smoothly over her dark fur as she guides her footpaw inside. She shimmies the material up over her knee, all the way to the top of her thigh. She adjusts it until suddenly she knows she has it /right/ - the seams aligned precisely, the contours hugging the shape of her leg perfectly. There is no doubt this stocking has been made to fit her, and only her.
Her heartbeat quickens again. Again she forces herself to control her breathing until it calms.
The left leg goes on much the same as the first. Small clips attach the stockings to the underwear but they hardly seem necessary. Sitting on a stool in her dressing room, Sepyrri looks at her Gray legs for the first time. It does not feel like she is wearing clothes at all; they are a part of her. Tight, conforming exactly to her. It is so strange, and yet... /right/.
Now Sepyrri turns her focus to the - to /her/ underdress. It is heavy; holding it in her hands, she marvels at its weight.
Consulting the helpful pictograms one more time, she takes a deep breath and dives in, pulling it over her head, letting it fall down around her, like the color Gray made solid surrounding her, blinding her, muffling all sound except the beating of her own heart. The scent of it floods her nose, a scent as warm and heavy as the material itself - in a way it reminds her of that strange heavy feeling in her gut she felt when... Her breath catches in her throat. She gasps. She cannot breathe. Her heart races. Air. She needs fresh air, and there is only one way to get there. She plunges on, thrusting her arms into the sleeves, pulling the neck hole over her head. Her ears spring free. Sound comes flooding back; the light of her dressing room is suddenly blinding.
Sepyrri breathes deeply, taking in great gulps of air, and yet the cloying scent persists; and no wonder, she is shrouded in it completely. A gentle tug and her tail pops free from a perfectly placed opening in the rear that she then cinches tight around the base with a drawstring. Six closely-spaced buttons fasten the underdress up her chest, right up to the base of her neck. More tiny, fiddly buttons close the cuffs of the sleeves tight around her wrists. The long skirt hangs almost to her ankles, the hem several centimeters above the floor. A tug here, an adjustment there, and-- as with the stockings, she can feel when it is /right/.
Sepyrri takes a pause to examine her reflection. From neck to toe she is swathed in a thick layer of pure Gray sentrile. The material has a coarse, unfinished look to it, severely plain and unadorned. And the feeling of it... She had thought her informal uniform fit her snugly but it was a loose shroud compared to the precision tailored sentrile of the formal underdress and stockings. It is deeply discomforting, and yet... and yet not truly uncomfortable. It is a new and alien sensation. Sepyrri finds herself wanting to keep experiencing it. She can tell it will take getting used to, but the prospect does not unnerve her; rather, Sepyrri is looking forward to it.
Now at last she directs her attention to the final piece, the thin layer of gossamer velvet that is all outsiders ever see of the Academy's devotees.
The Gray velvet dress looks small when she holds it up against her body - too small, even - but Sepyrri must trust that the Academy's seamstresses know their craft. Compared to the sentrile it is featherlight, almost translucent. It floats down around her as she lowers it over her head. Faint light filters through, glowing like silver, dazzling as her head seeks its aperture. Pulled down around her, the material stretches elastically, conforming and adhering to the underdress, the seamless skirt reaching all the way to the floor and not a centimeter longer, elegantly trimmed with dainty lace at the hem. Identical lace at the cuffs of the sleeves frame her hands, snug around her wrists, and a high stiff collar of lace securely circles her neck, drawn close with a ribbon that she ties into a neat bow at the nape. A Gray sash cinches the ensemble fast around her waist, tied in a bow at her back with the trailing ends hanging down to neatly frame her velvet-enshrouded tail that is buttoned in place in a dignified carriage of repose.
Sepyrri takes a deep breath and faces her reflection.
The velvet dress envelops her body without a wrinkle, not a single portion of material more than necessary. Sepyrri has never known anything like it. She does not just look different, she /feels/ different. She stands straighter, taller; something about the uniform makes slouching impossible. Any motion is met with opposition; her movements have to be economized, her gestures small.
She touches her hand to her ornate lace collar. She runs her fingers over her own velvet sleeves, exploring the texture. The beautiful rabbit in the mirror does the same. A tingle runs up her arm all the way from her fingertips to her spine.
The awkward, frightened rabbit child she had been has vanished. Standing there is someone else, someone totally new and yet not a stranger to Sepyrri.
No.
Standing there in the mirror is who Sepyrri has always dreamed of being, and had thought she would never - could never - be. For the longest time, she just stands, and stares.
It was her. She was her.
--
The trio stand when they hear the door to the dressing room click and then slowly open. Sepyrri soundlessly steps out and turns to look at them.
She shyly gives the long Gray velvet skirt a gentle swish, the lace hem brushing the carpet.
Trembling, she curtseys, elegantly and perfectly.
The three silently curtsey in return.
Sepyrri bursts into tears.
The three of them surround her, touching her, holding her up, gently guiding her to take a seat on the edge of the bed. They understand her perfectly.
They sit in silence, pressed close together. Sepyrri rests her head on Martingale's warm velvet shoulder, Czahana on her other side holding her hands in her lap.
She could die right now and die happier than she had ever been. But for the first time in her memory she feels like she has something to live for.
After a long while, Martingale speaks, "Would you like to go for a walk with us, Sepyrri?"
"It would be good for you to get some practice," Czahana adds.
Sepyrri nods, and quietly says, "Yes." She is not ready to take it off. She is not sure she will ever want to. She wants to show her new self to the Academy, to be among her sister devotees and seen.
Down the elevator and across the lobby in silence, and out the doors. They stop, and Sepyrri stops with them. As soon as they step outside into the sun the rabbit can feel her new uniform grow subtly tighter, squeezing across her entire body, as though actively trying to bond with her skin, desiring to become as much a part of her as her own fur. /More/ a part of her, even. And Sepyrri is content to let it. She has never felt comfortable in her own skin to begin with; this was only an improvement. She has never chosen her life before. She has /Chosen/ this. Comfortable was not the word; it was... /exciting/.
Cautiously Sepyrri tries to take a step forward; her legs wobble beneath her and she instinctively grabs for Martingale's arm to support herself. The vixen smiles, letting Sepyrri get her bearings. It is like learning to walk all over again, and yet something within her knows instinctively what needs to be done. She takes one tiny step, and then another, until she feels certain enough in herself to let go. The trio hover around her, ready to support her if she stumbles but it soon becomes clear their help will not be needed. The black rabbit steps ahead of them, out into the hot summer sunlight, and twirls boldly on her toes, laughing with unrestrained joy at the Gray dress spinning around her. Her three guides surround her in a gleeful circle holding hands, smiling and swishing and shimmering around her.
A sudden commotion somewhere off to the right seizes their attention and abruptly ends their impromptu dance. They stagger to a stop, sweating and panting slightly, their heavy dresses swaying with momentum for a beat longer. It seems the others from Sepyrri's arrival group also received their tailored formal uniforms today; though they look as different now as she herself did, after a moment Sepyrri recognizes several of them clustered around, and at the center of attention a rabbit girl with white fur clad in a Light Green formal uniform: Ciwwhim. Ciwwhim is not happy; sprawled on the ground in a manner wholly disrespectful of the deference her beautifully tailored uniform deserves, bawling and screaming in a shameful ignoble display. Her shriek reaches a peak, and even from this distance Sepyrri can hear her wail "I WANT TO GO HOME!" Sepyrri catches the eye of Capique standing by helplessly, resplendent in Dark Green velvet; the silver rabbit gives her a shy smile, a half shrug, and swishes her own new dress subtly. Sepyrri responds with a broad smile of her own, glad to know she is not the only one who feels more at home here than anywhere she has ever been before.
"Do you want to...?" Atkeelathit prompts, inclining her head in the direction of the indecent scene.
Sepyrri shakes her head. "No. I don't think there's anything I can do to help her."
They turn and stroll away to the left, leaving Ciwwhim and her misery behind.
Away from the dormitory, out into the grounds, from sun to tree-dappled shade. Sepyrri watches how her companions move and mimics their example, using her hands as they do when walking to slightly lift the front hem of her dress above the dust. The quartet move in silence; none of them feel much like talking, but this is just fine by Sepyrri. Just being welcomed among them is enough. She closes her eyes, letting her lapine ears guide her - the crunching of gravel beneath their stocking paws, the breeze in the trees, the birdsong. Before very long at all Sepyrri feels herself moving naturally, acclimating to the weight of her uniform surrounding her, falling into an unhurried stride that is mutually agreeable to her and the dress.
Sepyrri finds herself suddenly acutely conscious of everything her body is doing. Each step, each movement, each breath requires attention, concentration to overcome the stiff material's resistance. Casual, unthinking action is simply impossible; deliberate, slow, careful motion is all that is achievable, enforcing posture, grace, elegance. It is essential to be wholly focused on the present. She breathes deep, marveling at the effort such an ordinary action now demands of her. It feels deeply unnatural and absolutely right at the same time. She had not known what to expect - something like the informal uniform, only more so, perhaps - but the reality is something completely different. The informal uniform, as snug and concealing and warm as it was, was ultimately just clothing; functional, utilitarian. This dress is an identity; a Choice; a sacrament. A rejection of instinct; a physical declaration that she is something more than an animal. It is like a living thing, wrapping itself around her, bonding to her, seeking... /something/ from her. The subtle constrictive pressure across her entire body makes her body sing with every step. There is no escaping it, and Sepyrri has no desire to. She cannot explain it, but for the first time in her life Sepyrri feels truly herself.
The trio guiding her do not seem to be walking with any destination in mind, and yet before Sepyrri is aware of it their meandering path brings them to the stables. At the realization her tail twinges, mildly painful as it is held back by its enforced pose of rest, and sends an obvious ripple all the way down her skirt. Her ears, conversely unencumbered, perk in reflexive alarm. Her heart beats faster.
Martingale, Atkeelathit, and Czahana enter the stable yard without a break in stride. Sepyrri stops, hesitating on the threshold. This feels like another test.
The trio stop, Sepyrri's absence noticed immediately. They turn to look back at her.
Sepyrri's heart pounds. This is definitely a test, for real this time, and a chance to prove she does belong here, that she can be Noble. They are watching her, she is sure, to see what she will do.
She knows what is expected of her. She inhales a deep lungful of pungent stable air through her nose, feeling the reassuring weight of her uniform pressing back as her chest swells, reminding her of her vow, imbuing her with confidence. She has already made the hardest Choice she would ever make in her life. Compared to that, this fear is childish and insignificant; she has the power to Choose to be unafraid. It is not enough to wear it; she has to deserve to wear it. Every day, she has to deserve to wear it. It will never be easy.
She exhales slowly through her mouth. Her ears swivel slowly, settling into a position of relaxed, unthreatened ease. She can do this.
Resolutely, Sepyrri starts to move forward.
Only after Sepyrri has taken the first step on her own does Martingale hold out her hand. The rabbit takes it gratefully. All three of them - all four of them - are smiling. "Come, Sepyrri," the vixen speaks, "There's someone we want you to meet."
With one of Sepyrri's hands holding Martingale's and with the other daintily lifting the hem of her dress, they enter one of the stable buildings together and walk to a stall about halfway down the length and stop. The trio fall behind Sepyrri, silently inviting her to step forward and see for herself. Bravely she steps up and looks.
In the stall is a horse, standing, big and... brown. Sepyrri wonders if there is some special horsey word for the color; to her it looks just like any other horse. It looks back at her placidly. Its nostrils flex as it sniffs at her. But as Sepyrri's eyes take in the scene, she sees it, mostly hidden behind the horse: a second horse, also brown, and smaller. Much smaller. A baby, Sepyrri realizes with alarm.
The baby horse looks at her with curiosity. Sepyrri instinctively takes a hurried hop backwards and draws her arms close to her chest, hands clasped tightly.
"Sepyrri, this is Elvoia. Elvoia, this is Sepyrri," Martingale introduces, her voice soft and gentle, "She was just born this morning."
The words barely register with Sepyrri. The baby horse is an awkward, bony creature, bizarrely proportioned with knobby legs too long for its body, eyes too big for its head, and only a short frizzy tail.
Being here, this close to these creatures, the memories of last time loom large in Sepyrri's mind. Why have they brought her here again? This horse-this mother-and her baby, what is in store for them? She looks from them to the trio. "Are... are you going to...?"
"No."
"Not today."
"Elvoia has her whole life ahead."
Sepyrri nods, relieved, and yet... slightly... disappointed?
"Is there something on your mind, Sepyrri?"
Honesty was Noble. She has to let them know. They were being so nice to her. So... /friendly/. Even if they shun her for it, she has to be honest with them. "When... when I watched... It... I... felt... /weird/. But... good? Like... like I wanted to see it again..."
Martingale smiles and nods knowingly, "That's nothing to be ashamed of."
"We all know that feeling well. More than you might imagine," Atkeelathit adds.
"To be able to face death, to recognize it in all its terribleness, and to not turn away in fear... that is a very Noble thing, Sepyrri," Czahana praises.
Sepyrri is silent, mulling this revelation over in her mind. It feels like a great weight has been lifted from her. They were not repulsed or disgusted by her abnormal attraction.
Martingale speaks, "The three of us have Chosen voluntarily to bear the role of horsekeepers, but every Choice has its consequences. We Choose to take responsibility for these horses' lives, but to do so we must also Choose to take responsibility for their /whole/ lives. Birth to death. It is impossible to have one without the other."
Sepyrri nods. She admires the girls' commitment.
Atkeelathit continues, "We care for these horses, and an indispensable part of that care is giving them an honorable and respectful death when their time comes. It is a joyous day a new foal is born, and a sorrowful one when a horse must leave us, but it is not the Noble way to celebrate the births and avoid the deaths. Choosing to be a horsekeeper means Choosing to be present for both. To /savor/ both. It is a dreadful duty but a wholly essential one."
Sepyrri is beginning to understand. So much of what she has read in her textbook over the last few days is finally making sense.
Czahana adds, "Each of us adored Zysto, and he us. We doted upon him and let ourselves grow close to him, even knowing that ultimately it would be our responsibility to lead him on that final walk, to slaughter him, and to butcher him. He did not die by a stranger's hand. The bond we shared made his death all the more special for him and for us. It was our humble honor to ensure his death was the proper experience he deserved. And someday, though she has only just been born, it will necessarily be our responsibility to honor our commitment to Elvoia the same way."
"Becoming a horsekeeper is not a Choice to be made lightly. Can you bear the weight of that responsibility? Can you ride them, care for them, nurture them, place their needs above your own, knowing that day will come? Can you slaughter them, butcher them, when they are an animal you have raised, have bonded with, have loved? You have shown yourself capable of facing death without shying away. Can you face life the same?" Martingale concludes. All three of them are now focused on the black rabbit in the Gray dress, watching, waiting.
Sepyrri is taken aback, realizing the question meaningfully directed to her. A horsekeeper? Her? The idea had never crossed her mind, would never - ever - have crossed her mind without prompting. She is an intruder here; this place is not for someone like her-No. It is not for someone like /she had been/. Now, standing tall in her new velvet vestments, Sepyrri can Choose to be someone new. Here in the warm stable fug, the idea of joining the horsekeepers seems intriguingly attractive. Something has awakened within her, something that yearned to be around these creatures, to look after them, to know them, to see them live, and, inevitably, die. She has never understood the attraction before, and yet now she is beginning to see the grace, the beauty. Her fear already feels like a distant memory.
She looks at the newborn horse and a vision appears unbidden in her mind's eye of its head lying in the straw, wide glassy eyes staring at nothing; she pictures its red blood spilling down its chest, herself holding a knife as long as her forearm. The gangly little horse looks at her with pure innocence. She feels a knot in her stomach. It does not know what its ultimate fate will be; would not, could not ever understand it. But Sepyrri knows, and Sepyrri understands. That knowledge and understanding - and the responsibility of that knowledge and understanding - is what sets the Noble races apart from mere beasts.
"It will be rewarding but it will also break your heart," Atkeelathit offers.
Sepyrri watches the pair of horses watching her. They are not things. They are living beings. The little one - Elvoia - has only just been born and yet its- /her/ inevitable end was ordained. But, Noble or not, was that really so very different from her own life?
"It will be a lot of work," Czahana adds.
Deep in her gut, Sepyrri wants nothing more than to see Elvoia grow and thrive in the intrinsically limited time they will share, and unlike Elvoia she has the power to Choose to make that happen.
"It will never get easier," Martingale finishes.
Sepyrri nods solemnly. She swallows, and speaks, "I suppose... I suppose that is what makes it Noble."
The trio nod approvingly.
Sepyrri takes another deep breath. "I... I could try. But... why me?"
"Because if we had not invited you, would you have ever volunteered?"
Sepyrri feels her ears blush.
"We /want/ you to join us."
"I... I don't know anything about horses," the rabbit admits, "At all."
"We can teach you."
Sepyrri smiles shyly. "I'd like that."
Her legs wobbling beneath her, head raised and sniffing, the filly curiously approaches Sepyrri.
Gently, as no one had done before, she reaches out and begins to pet her.
First draft begun April 15, 2023. First draft finished November 5, 2023. Editing completed February 7, 2024.
