“We could eat at Aery Squall’s café on Mistral Street,” suggested Twilight, stepping gracefully into the cool morning air. “She makes that baklava you like,” she added, smiling as she turned to face her stallion, Trixie, who followed her outside and winced at the sun’s dazzling rays.
“Pegasus food would be a little heavy for breakfast, don’t you think?” Trixie said, nuzzling Twilight while they sat on the porch, apricating as a cool breeze shot over their huddled bodies. Generally speaking, pegasi had faster rates of metabolism than unicorns.
After a few moments of contemplation, Twilight agreed, saying, “You’re right, it would be. Especially on a cold day like this one.” She affectionately wrapped her forelegs around Trixie’s warm barrel, her hooves barely meeting at the stallion’s back. “Where do you think we should eat breakfast, Trixie?”
Ponyville, despite the bucolic origin and industry of its putative Earth Pony founders, was host to a healthy populace of Pegasus and Unicorn artists and artisans, and so hosted a diverse selection of bistros and brasseries acceptable to the palette of two young lovers borne of Canterlot patricians. While life on the road quickly instilled in Trixie the value of food as sustenance (as opposed to entertainment), he still found pleasure in sampling the local fare on his travels, and so developed a taste for the gastronomically exotic. When he first found himself living (against his will) in Ponyville, he spent most of the free time Twilight allotted him exploring the cosmopolitan eateries of the town, and their menus.
Trixie thought for a moment, gingerly running a hoof up and down Twilight’s crest, before answering, “Earth Pony food would be nice, but the restaurants are always busy.” Twilight vocalized her agreement with a soft ‘m-hm.’ She didn’t like crowds; and neither did Trixie, unless he was the focus of their attention.
“There are a few dining parlours around Rarity’s boutique that are always quiet; we could go take a look at them,” proffered Twilight, pulling away from their embrace and giving Trixie a peck on the cheek. By ‘around Rarity’s boutique’ she meant ‘in the Unicorn part of town,’ but Trixie had noticed months ago that Twilight abstained from the use of such labels, which she considered crass and he considered honest.
“Then lead our way, Twi-light of my life,” Trixie grinned at Twilight cutely rolling her eyes and stepping away to lead them further into Ponyville. Stalling for just a moment, he turned to gander the day’s issue of the Ponyville Express resting below the mailbox (where mailmare Derpy dropped correspondences of too little import to warrant Spike disgorging them). He levitated the paper just below eye level and trotted up to walk beside Twilight. Trixie abhorred newspapers, and only actually read them if he was the subject of an article, but Twilight had many friends and acquaintances in town and ostensibly reading a newspaper was insurance against getting pulled into a conversation between her and some other mare on their way.
Trixie had no use for casual conversation, found most topics of discussion vapid, and was more accustomed to talking at ponies than with them. Twilight was the only other pony in town to whom he could really speak (and sometimes Spike, who had gleaned a small degree of intellectual acumen from Twilight).
The worst contingency Trixie could imagine in this scenario was Twilight striking up a conversation with some mare that had a stallion of her own in tow. He would be obliged to converse with the other fellow; and in doing so endure several minutes of small talk over buckball or local politics, or some other means by which average ponies procrastinate for death.
Trixie’s ruminations were cut short by the friendly greetings Twilight and Cheerilee exchanged as the latter trotted up to greet them. Cheerilee, who Trixie regarded as intelligent but not enlightened, was Ponyville’s school teacher (having earned a degree from some college in Canterlot of which Trixie had never heard) and one of Twilight’s closer friends. Like mares do, they thought his made Trixie a friend of Cheerilee’s by extension. Trixie had sense enough not to point out that this wasn’t the case.
Just before the mares settled into their friendly chat, Trixie stared intensely at the newspaper he’d brought along. Entire seconds passed before it occurred to him that he could read the paper, and the need to alleviate his leaden boredom outweighed his distaste for the rag. Surreptitiously flipping through the leaves of pulp (so as to not betray the real purpose of his reading it) he glimpsed a disturbing image between the front page and the comic section.
In a set of pages dedicated to intrigue in Canterlot (the gravitational locus of all political power in Equestria), Trixie saw a short article wherein it was related that Croix Lulamoon, Trixie’s eldest brother, had risen from the position of chancery clerk to Vice Chancellor in service to Celestia’s Court. The article was adorned by a monochrome photo in newsprint depicting Croix stood next to their father Halifax; who held a similar position in the High Court of Admiralty (which dealt more in commerce than the small fleet of zeppelins Canterlot maintained), and whose once azure coat was blanching with age.
The ‘tradition’ of names containing with the letter ‘X’ was started by Admiral Xeryus Lulamoon (Halifax’s father), though Trixie found it beneath the dignity of his erstwhile distinguished geniture.
“Trixie?” Cheerilee’s voice intruded on Trixie’s thoughts before they could coalesce and devolve into seething angst.
“Huh?” Trixie uttered, without even a minute trace of the charismatic loquacity or showmanship Cheerilee (and many other ponies) had come to expect of him.
“How has it been coming along with Snips and Snails?” asked Cheerilee. “I know you’ve been helping them with their magic act for the talent show, next weekend.”
Trixie, dismissing the failure of his gambit with the newspaper, expertly dropped into the persona he’d developed for the ponies around town. “Trixie, master that he is of both pedagoguery and prestidigitation, has found those colts to be beyond help—but he has no doubt they’ll put on an entertaining show,” spake Trixie, with several minor gesticulations accompanying the statement.
Cheerilee and Twilight both smirked, but only the former followed up, saying, “That’s good to hear! I know they can be a hoofful, but those colts really look up to you.” Almost all of the fillies and colts in Ponyville adored Trixie, who kept a place in his heart for children; even during his first miserable weeks there, Trixie would sometimes abandon his sullen attitude and perform small, impromptu magic acts for the kids in town.
Snips and Snails, though, were the only ones who made the mistake of viewing Trixie as a role model. Trixie had taught them some amateur, entry-level illusions and simple japes using legerdemain; a far cry from the death defying escapes he had performed onstage, but instructing the colts was an entertaining way to spend a few afternoons, and it kept him Twilight’s good graces.
“It was Trixie’s good fortune to meet many skilled illusionists and magicians in his travels, who charitably taught him their techniques,” began Trixie, lying through his teeth. “It is only… karmic, that he pass on this knowledge to the next generation, undeserving though they may be.”
Trixie’s own magic act, for the several short years it existed, mainly consisted not of illusions but feats exhibiting both the stallion’s cognitive acuity and his power over the miraculous potential of magic. The show would begin with the usual exercises, such as performing mathematical operations faster than adding machines, or quoting pages of literary classics verbatim, with both tricks using numbers called out by the audience; this would be followed by demonstrations of mindreading and clairvoyance, then mesmeric operations, before ultimately culminating in the visual spectacle of Trixie performing an awesome and obscure (but easily executed) spell he’d learned in his study of the ancient unicorns.
Toward his last few months as a stage magician, Trixie was even performing healings on stage, so consumed was he with his own power; and this resulted in his being called a charlatan—tarnishing his celebrity among the common ponies. (Healing magic was mythical among Equestrians, as the art had gone extinct three millennia prior, with the fall of the High Unicorns and their flight from the desecrated Island.)
“And they’ll need you at the talent show,” Twilight interjected. “To support them.”
Trixie shrugged and the mares exchanged a few more words before goodbyes were said, both parties going their separate ways. Trixie, in spite of his many journeys there and back again, had no mind for directions (probably due to his incessantly wandering attention), and asked Twilight how close they were to their destination.
The mare, smirking, replied thusly, “Twilight thinks she and Trixie are about halfway there.”
This was meant to be a playful gibe at Trixie referring to himself in the third person during their talk with Cheerilee, but he could detect a note of exasperation in Twilight’s voice. She considered it a triumph of his rehabilitation, when she successfully adjured him to speak as normal ponies do. While he only spoke in the first person to Twilight and her best friends, this small change proved that she could alter his behavior for the better.
Trixie only nuzzled her in response. Even that infinitesimal scintilla of irritation in Twilight’s words sent his mind spiraling, trying to calculate the hidden semantics and psychological implications of all possible responses to the joke, and in which lied the healthiest course of action. Overwhelmed, instinct demanded Trixie keep quiet and nuzzle her. Twilight must have sensed this, because she came to a full halt and comforted him.
After a tender, wordless moment of affection, the couple continued on their way.
Twilight, like most other ponies, had mistaken Trixie’s habit of speaking in the third person as the vainglorious affectation of an emotionally fragile megalomaniac. But, while certain parts of that statement may hold water, the true reason for this idiosyncrasy lay in a realm totally opposite to the initial assumption. Yisrach, Trixie’s wizened and sage master, taught him that one of secrets to true magic lay in the realization that all experiential phenomena are explicated not by the intelligence of the magician, but the persona that houses the intelligence. Therefore, the true magician must extricate his notion of himself (and selfness itself) from the shell of his earthly persona. Master impelled Trixie to refer to himself (or, rather, his physical manifestation,) as ‘Trixie,’ and to never say ‘I,’ as a way of inculcating his apprentice into this way of thinking.
When Master was alive, he’d discipline Trixie for referring to himself as ‘I,’ with physical punishment when they were together in person, or with telepathic assaults when Trixie was away from the Island. Therein lay the reason Trixie couldn’t explain his habit to Twilight, who would not only have been heartbroken to hear her love was taught using such methods (which he was sure she would mistake for abuse), but also would have ‘gotten the wrong idea’ about his master. So, while Trixie loved his master a great deal and hated to disobey him (even in death), Trixie also loved Twilight, and was willing to make exceptions to his master’s rules for her sake.
They had arrived in what lesser minds referred to as the ‘uniquarter’ of Ponyville, and Twilight had been saying something about one of the cafes when Trixie realized he wasn’t paying attention to her.
“What do you think, sweetie?” Twilight queried, facing one of the pearly edifices that dominated the architecture of the unicorn part of town, then turning to smile at Trixie.
“Uh, yes. I agree,” Trixie laid a light kiss on her cheek.
“Alright, it’s just one more block away,” said Twilight, who then continued to guide them further. Trixie hid his relief.
Trotting down the obliquely set, square cut cobblestone roads endemic to unicorn cityscape, Twilight was the first to see the trio of Spike, Rarity and Sweetie Belle also en route to some unknown destination. Once Rarity caught sight of Twilight, the two groups quickly converged and exchanged warm greetings; with Twilight inquiring as to the quality of Spike’s night at the Carousel Boutique, and receiving concurrent answers from everypony save Trixie (who wasn’t entertaining any profound thoughts at the moment, but still seemed miles away from the conversation).
“Oh, I’m just going to treat Spike and Sweetie Belle to a breakfast at Taillevent’s Bistro, for their help last night putting together next year’s spring line,” spoke Rarity in the faux-urbane cant she liked to affect.
“How serendipitous; Trixie and I are also on our way to have breakfast,” Twilight began. “Is Taillevent’s Bistro the one on Lil-”
“Oh?” Rarity interrupted, a hoof rising to cover her mischievous grin. With a telling glance darting between Twilight and Trixie, she asked, “Did you not have anything planned for breakfast, last night?”
Twilight was piqued by the question, and Trixie recognized there was a hidden layer to the mares’ exchange, but he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of it.
“Well, I was thinking we could all have breakfast together, since we’ve run into each other,” Twilight hoped to sidestep the issue, along with any more of Rarity’s vexing double entendres.
“That would be marvelous! Sweetie, what do you think?” asked Rarity, glancing back at her sister. Both Spike and Sweetie Belle answered, voicing their approval.
Sweetie Belle climbed onto Trixie’s back and Spike deigned to continue walking next to Rarity, and in this fashion the blessing of unicorns and one whelpling made their way.
Rarity and Sweetie Belle were descendants of the detachment of Canterlot unicorns that travelled down the mountain to economize and administrate the array of Earth Pony farms that made up what would later become Ponyville, and also to arrange for the Pegasus weather service to most efficiently organize the atmospheric phenomena upon which the whole enterprise depended. As upper-middle class unicorns would often do, they adopted some of the other tribes’ customs, as evinced by Rarity and Sweetie Belle’s names, which had an earthen ring to Trixie’s ear.
But Trixie wasn’t one to cast stones where names were concerned. ‘Beatrix,’ was actually an archaic Pegasus name, and a mare’s one at that. Trixie didn’t know whether to ascribe this to his father’s malice, or ignorance, but Twilight was the only other pony in Trixie’s life who knew the origin of his name, and she kept the secret in strict confidence (though she often reminded him it was a silly thing to be ashamed over).
(The entire trend of modern Ponies’ naming conventions began with the Unicorns, almost three thousand years before Ponyville’s founding; when the High Unicorn Autarch Ulaamun L’israch, called ‘Ulaamun the Firstblessed’ due to his being the first unicorn to wield magic after the Dying of Ulaam, declared his name too holy to be said by any ponies other than the Priests of the Dying God; and so issued a writ decreeing all his subjects [whom he considered to be all living things] were to refer to him only as ‘Golden Dawn’. This notion caught like wildfire among ponies of all tribes, and soon everypony had both a primary and a secondary name. Three centuries before Trixie’s birth, pony legal tradition had dispensed with the use of primary names, and infants were only given secondary names at birth. The family Lulamoon, just as quixotic then as ever, acted to contradict this trend by only giving their children primary names.)
Besides, Trixie had a fondness for Rarity and Sweetie Belle. Rarity was the only one of Twilight’s friends who didn’t make him win her over when he first came to Ponyville, and again when they needed to approve of him dating Twilight; and Sweetie Belle was just a little angel, as far as it concerned Trixie.
It was a quiet morning for the tastefully decorated bistro when the party arrived, so they had their pick of seating and were given attentive service. As they settled around a table comfortably positioned in a corner and afront two large windows, Rarity politely called Trixie’s name.
“Would you mind terribly if I had a peek at your copy of the Express, darling?” asked Rarity, and Trixie was happy to oblige—levitating the paper from the recess between his shirt and cardigan, where he’d forgotten he had tucked it, to the mare who plucked it from the air with her own, less trained telekinesis.
The party settled into their seats and studied their menus, remarking to one another on the restaurant’s good qualities.
Trixie ordered stuffed grape leaves fried in fish oil and served on a bed of chard. Though epicurean, it wasn’t the most expensive item on the selection, and he had already partaken of it months prior. The price made little difference to him, anyway; Trixie was certain Twilight would pay, because even if she didn’t volunteer to do so, he had already spent all the money she’d given him for that week’s allowance. Trixie hoped it wouldn’t come to his confessing to it, but he didn’t understand why it upset her, anyway, when he couldn’t make the money last. Twilight received a generous pension signed by Celestia herself every month, so it wasn’t as though she was earning any of it.
“Sweetie Belle?” Rarity said, reading the newspaper as the group waited for breakfast to be served.
“Yeah, sis?” replied Sweetie.
“Does Father still read the paper during meals?” Rarity looked over to her sister.
“Yeah, and Mom still gets mad at him over it,” Sweetie and Rarity both shared a chuckle.
Trixie felt Twilight wrap her forelegs around one of his own, and cradle her head on the side of his neck. Then it occurred to him that if there were one section of the paper (besides the horoscopes) that would appeal to Rarity, it would be the section containing news from Canterlot—and the article on his brother.
When the subject of his family first came up, after he ‘moved in’ with Twilight, she tenderly urged him to entertain the notion of reconciling with his father and brothers. Trixie considered emotional outbursts and crying tantrums to be the tools of a master diplomat, so it wasn’t long before Twilight knew better than to even mention somepony, other than Trixie, named ‘Lulamoon’.
As it occurred to Trixie, Twilight should have known better than anypony how awful his family had been during his childhood—she had known him since they were nine years old, after all.
The experiment here, for Trixie, was to observe how Rarity reacted to reading about upjumped little Croix. If she mentioned it to him over breakfast, all affairs would be copacetic, but if she knew better, that would move to confirm a suspicion Trixie had developed: that Twilight had been telling her friends about his quarrels with his father and siblings. ‘Airing dirty laundry,’ as the earth ponies would say; and while Trixie was certain Twilight would have only done this with good intentions, he recoiled at the idea of appearing as anything but superequine, and above petty familial squabbles.
“Oh, Trixie, did you read? Your brother is Vice Chancellor,” Rarity held the folded-over paper so as to display the printed photo, and Trixie felt Twilight unconsciously tighten her grip on his foreleg. “And only a few months after your father gave that statement saying how ‘you had scandalized the entire family.’”
Trixie, not as relieved as he suspected he would be, dismissed the entire line of discussion with a wave of his hoof, solemnly declaring, “They aren’t my family.” Twilight kissed his cheek, in support.
Sweetie Belle, who had been in thought trying to discern what would drive Trixie’s father to make such a statement, innocently asked, “Oh! Did he say that because of the thing you did in Canterlot?”
Spike, who had been hitherto quietly admiring Rarity’s highly evolved method of reading newspapers, chimed in, endeavoring to alter the course of the conversation, saying, “Hey, uh, I th-”
“No, Sweetie, Halifax isn’t conscionable enough to care about that,” vociferated Trixie, authoritatively and in a callous monotone. “Halifax and his imbecilic spawn felt slighted that Celestia placed me in Twilight’s custody, as opposed to summarily executing or petrifying me like they would have preferred.”
Sweetie Belle seemed nonplussed by his tone. “What could they have against Twilight? She’s one of the nicest ponies I know,” she continued, oblivious to the negativity these questions and their answers promulgated.
“The idiots don’t even know her, they just think Twilight’s family isn’t noble or pure blooded enough to justify her holding power over a Lulamoon,” said Trixie. Twilight’s family, though well-bred, only entered nobility five-hundred years before her birth; when Twilight Nebula, a court wizard to Celestia, was granted peerage after serving as Treasurer of the Exchequer for an entire century. “There’s also faction of magicians in Celestia’s Court who believe it’s wrong; due to my being a five-point unicorn, whereas she’s a six-point unicorn.”
“Let’s not talk about this, Trixie,” Twilight delicately interjected, running her hoof along Trixie’s back as she nuzzled him.
“You’re ri-” Trixie began, and harshly, before catching himself and softening his tone. He took Twilight’s hoof in his own and, without looking at her face, gently said, “You’re right, Twilight; I’m ruining breakfast. Forgive me.” Trixie punctuated this apology by raising her hoof (which he thought looked small and fragile when held in his own) to his mouth and lightly kissing it.
“Don’t be silly,” Twilight was embarrassed, but not enough to stop him.
Sweetie Belle, who was smiling girlishly at the scene, chimed in once more, “Could I ask one more question?”
“Sweetie,” chided Rarity, lightly, satisfied that she had her own fun.
“It’s fine. Ask away, Sweetie Belle,” Twilight slid her hoof from Trixie’s, and casually nuzzled him.
“What do you mean by ‘five-point’ and ‘six-point?’” Sweetie Belle was now looking to Twilight instead of Trixie for an answer.
“Ooh, this should interest you: it has to do with cutie marks!” Twilight began, with Sweetie now listening intently. “You know how only unicorns can get cutie marks in magic? Well, statistically, about ten percent of all unicorns do—have a special talent for magic, that is—and every cutie mark for magic depicts a type of star. By ‘star,’ I mean the geometrical polygon,” she explained, looking once to see Sweetie nodding enthusiastically. “Of the ten percent of magic cutie marks (and the magicians who have them), seventy-four percent have eight-pointed stars, eighteen percent have seven-pointed stars, seven-point-five percent have six-pointed stars—like me—and the remaining half-of-one percent of all unicorn magicians have five-pointed stars; like Trixie and Star Swirl the Bearded.”
Twilight neglected to mention that the reason there were so few five-point unicorns: of those rare births, most die in infancy, due to their manifest forms being unable to efficiently center the gravity of the baleful energies unleashed when five-point cutie marks appear. But such things are not for a little girl’s ears to hear.
“There’s a belief among magicians,” Twilight continued. “Which started with the ancient High Unicorns, before we all left the Island,” she glanced knowingly at Trixie, before returning her gaze to Sweetie Belle, “That the lower the number of points on a magician’s star cutie mark, or the ‘closer they are to unity’ as the ancient sorcerers said, the greater the magician’s ability and intelligence.”
She could have mentioned the ancient belief that the only way for a higher-point unicorn to become a superior, lower-point unicorn was to live virtuously and, through metempsychosis, be rewarded with a holier incarnation after death. But perhaps it was wiser not to try explaining this to a child.
Trixie quickly interpolated an elucidation of his own, adding, “Among the High Unicorns, three thousand years ago, only five-pointers and six-pointers were allowed to enter the priesthood, and there again, only five-point priests were allowed to become archpriests or sorcerer-king, like the Firstblessed.”
“Oh,” Sweetie Belle uttered, and Trixie felt a charge in the air, reminiscent of the hours just before the weather service brings down a thunderstorm. “Trixie, is it true? That five-point unicorns are smarter and better at magic than six-point unicorns?” Sweetie asked, having inherited certain tendencies Trixie recognized in her elder sister.
“S-sweetie Belle!” Rarity laughed, trying to scold her. Twilight was shaking her head, one hoof wrapped around Trixie’s foreleg and another covering her own abashed grin.
Trixie had foreseen this as soon as Sweetie asked about the point system, and he required no clairvoyance to do so. Just like the five-point archpriests of yore, Trixie had been preparing himself to make the following sacrifice, “No, it isn’t true. Twilight’s smarter than I am, and I reckon she’d be more talented with magic if it all came down to dust.” His only solace after making this concession was a conciliatory kiss on the cheek from Twilight, and his own desperately conjured memories of last night’s events.
“Woah!” Spike couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Did the great and powerful Trixie really just say that somepony else was-”
“Spike!” Twilight rebuked the whelping (much more successfully than Rarity had tried to do with Sweetie), and looked to the filly, saying, “What Trixie meant to say was: that intelligence and ability and our perceptions of these things are all subjective, and there’s no way to prove if one pony is better than another. And even if that weren’t the case, Celestia has an eight-point star and it’s been agreed that she’s the most powerful magician alive.”
“Yes, and don’t forget,” Rarity held up the newspaper again, looking at Sweetie. “Zodiac Luster is an eight-point unicorn, and her horoscopes have never been wrong.”
Trixie heard Twilight sigh softly as Rarity undermined her point, then heard their waitress trotting up to the table with several dishes. Within a few minutes, they had all started dining, with the topic of the prior conversation giving way to lighter discussion.
Though, during a lull in the new talk, Rarity asked, “Trixie, could I ask you something?”
“Please, do.”
“Do you know of any other living unicorns with five-pointed star cutie marks?”
Trixie paused, in deep contemplation, before answering, “I did, at one time, and personally. But his body was old, and it had served its purpose, so he let it die some time ago. As to what remains of him, and where he might now dwell, I can only speculate.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be. As I said, he had served his purpose, and chose to die on his own terms. We should all be so lucky, to choose the hour of our deaths.”