//------------------------------//
// Chapter I 
// Story: The Magician and the Fiddler 
// by The Fool 
//------------------------------//

Where the magician had stood moments ago, a fiery serpent erupted from the stage and pirouetted through the smoky air, illuminating the awe-struck faces of the tavern's patrons. Flames washed over the wooden stage and licked at the maroon curtains while the serpent's neck split like a hydra's. The heads snaked out to mingle with the audience, lighting cigarettes, startling ponies by peeking over their withers to reflect in their glasses of whiskey, and winding under the tables to brush past their hooves. Once the tavern was wrapped up like a kitten in a ball of yarn, the heads arced up toward the ceiling and collided, exploding in a shower of sparks that lit the night for several blocks down the road.

Fillydelphia ordinance prohibited fire magic within a hundred feet of any structure, much less inside one, which was why several patrons' cigarettes all extinguished in unison. Realizing with dismay that the display was just a trick of the light, the ponies looked to the stage in time to see the flames die away, revealing an azure unicorn mare standing on her hind legs with her forelegs stretched into the air. A winning smile graced her face, and her silver mane and starry lavender cloak billowed in a nonexistent gale.

"Ta-dah!" Trixie exclaimed, but the sound was drowned out in the patrons' whistling and rumbling applause as a fountain of bits poured from their coin purses onto the stage. At least, that's the reception she imagined. Save for one enthusiastic onlooker whose face was obscured in the shadows cast from her white cowpony hat by the lanterns overhead, the audience's response was much more modest, and more importantly, stingy. The few bits that landed by her hooves were mostly copper, some silver, two or three gold, and altogether just enough for her room and board. With extraordinary luck, tomorrow's show would yield enough to pay for her appointment in Hollow Shades. She slumped back onto all fours.

The enthusiastic patron applauded awhile longer but stopped abruptly when she realized the others had already returned to hunching over their drinks and murmuring to one another about nothing in particular.

Trixie finally let her smile falter, released a muffled sigh, and began levitating the meager scattering of bits into her burlap pouch but stopped when she felt somepony watching her. She looked up from beneath the brim of her lavender wizard hat and locked eyes with a lemon-yellow earth pony mare whose elegant cobalt mane was covered by a white cowpony hat.

"Hi," the mare said, folding her forelegs on the edge of the stage.

Deciding that some one-on-one time with a fan was the best remedy for her ills in the absence of a budget for alcohol, Trixie strutted over, sat with her hind legs crossed over the stage, stretched back one foreleg to prop herself up, tossed her mane with the other like a practiced showmare, and said, "Good evening, stranger. What can the Great and Powerful Trixie do for you?"

"No autographs or anything—not that I wouldn't like one," the mare replied, smiling coyly. "I just wanted to congratulate you. I've never seen a magician draw her audience into her act so intimately."

Were the mare's smile not so infectious, Trixie would be cringing at the memory of how she used to draw her audience into her act. It hadn't been unlike what stand-up comedian sometimes did, but she had taken herself dead serious at the time, and it had nearly cost her her life more than once. Those days were behind her, though, and that was where they would stay. "Thank you, Ms..."

"Fiddlesticks."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fiddlesticks. Knowing that somepony out there in the seas of faces the Great and Powerful Trixie sees night after night enjoys her shows is what makes them worthwhile."

"Just Fiddlesticks will do fine. Would you mind my just calling you Trixie? On top of all the smoke and heat in this place, I'll likely swoon if I have to address you by your full title."

"Trixie wouldn't mind in the slightest, Fiddlesticks. She couldn't help noticing your accent. By any chance, have you been to Mareland?"

Fiddlesticks's smile widened. "I have, actually. I grew up in Manehattan, but I spent the better part of the last several years in Mareland. I'm only here now because my family invited me to a reunion, but that was a few weeks ago, so I thought I'd see if the local venues could use a fiddler. I performed here last night, actually. I had another performance scheduled tonight, but I heard about a certain up-and-coming magician and thought I'd cancel to give her a chance."

Trixie only needed a moment to put two and two together, but the silence stretched out as she tried to work out how she felt about the sum. Her reputation resented being deflated to the level of an up-and-coming magician, but that was why she was back in Fillydelphia in the first place—to start over. Furthermore, generosity was apparently harder to come by than when she was growing up—either that or news of the chaos she'd caused in Ponyville had preceded her. When she saw Fiddlesticks's smile faltering into self-conscious concern, she scrambled for a way to break the silence. "Trixie apologizes. She's getting old, you see," she said, earning an adorable giggle. "She often finds herself getting lost in thought lately, but she certainly appreciates your generosity and hopes your performance was better received than hers."

Fiddlesticks lowered her head, hiding her eyes beneath her hat. "It didn't, really. They were polite, of course, and I'm sure most of them enjoyed it, but nopony seems to have much use for a lone fiddler. I can see how being in a band or orchestra might appeal to some, but I never had the coordination to play in concert with others."

The sight of her looking so downcast bothered Trixie on a level she couldn't understand, but one thing she could understand was that she never wanted to see her that way again. "For her part, Trixie never liked performing with other magicians. They would always try to steal the show." She would always try to steal the show, she corrected herself. Seeing that Fiddlesticks hadn't looked up and sensing that no response was forthcoming, Trixie asked, "Would you like to hear a story?"

Fiddlesticks raised her head, the anticipation gleaming in her stunning sapphire eyes being all the answer Trixie needed, and pulled herself onto the stage well within Trixie's personal space. Fiddlesticks ought to have felt uncomfortable putting herself in such intimate proximity to a mare she'd just met, but perhaps the norm was different in Mareland.

The other patrons paid them no mind, for a Fillydelphian's indifference was evidently without equal.

Trixie pointedly ignored them, turned to focus on her one loyal fan, and began, "Trixie wasn't always a nopony, you know. At the height of her career, she traveled the countryside on a hoof-crafted carriage that folded out into a full-length stage, but when she happened across a little trading town called Ponyville and told a tale too tall for two local colts, a cranky Ursa Minor crushed all her worldly belongings underfoot. Fortunately, Trixie was creating a diversion at the time to stall until the town battlemage could arrive. The real tragedy was that Trixie hadn't insured her carriage beforehand and had to flee town to avoid being charged for the cleanup. To an apathetic observer," she said, making a sweeping gesture to the other patrons, one of whom had the courtesy to grunt, "she deserved what she got because—"

"Hang on, I think I know this story."

"You do?" Trixie asked, caught off guard. "I—Trixie means, of course you do. Why should she be surprised that news of her spectacular failure would make international headlines? That would be just her luck, after all."

Fiddlesticks's smile returned, and her eyes glinted with mischief. "My cousin told me, actually. You know, the one you hogtied with her own rope in front of the whole town earlier that day."

Trixie blushed. From the cute orange bandanna and green v-neck shirt, she should have recognized Fiddlesticks from the paper. The Apple Family Reunion itself may not have been newsworthy, but to anypony unaccustomed to Ponyville's insanity, the toppling of a barn at Sweet Apple Acres was. Trixie opened her mouth to offer some sort of apology, but none came. In truth, she wasn't really sorry, and something told her Fiddlesticks would see right through her anyway.

Fiddlesticks seemed to delight in watching her squirm before clarifying, "I thought it was kind of funny, myself, but I can see how Applejack might have thought differently. For what it's worth, she doesn't hold it against you. Not anymore, anyway. She said you've cleaned up your act since then."

Trixie wondered when her emotions became so manipulable as her heart filled with cautious hope and words left her mouth without her permission, "Is her evaluation fair, would you say?"

Fiddlesticks made a show of evaluating her before answering, "Hm, I'd say so, yes. You came to Fillydelphia for a fresh start, I take it."

Trixie smiled, feeling solid ground beneath her hooves again. "That's right."

"You might have considered coming up with a new title."

"Trixie might have, but she decided she wanted to show anypony who remembered the old her that the new one has come a long way, perhaps even far enough to be considered a likable pony, instead of trying to hide her identity when her dazzling appearance would surely have given it away anyway. She'd hoped to earn the bits to pay for her appointment the day after tomorrow with a medium in Hollow Shades, but with only one more performance and barely enough for lodging, she may have to resign to her fate."

"I'm sorry to hear that." After a moment's thought, Fiddlesticks asked giddily, "I've nowhere to be tomorrow and nothing better to do, so why don't we perform together? I've never shared the stage with a magician, but you wouldn't have to worry about me stealing the show. Judging from how you controlled that illusion, we could even coordinate our acts to compliment each other's, and you could keep any bits we make since you need them more than I do."

Trixie almost didn't know what to say. She couldn't remember the last time somepony had shown her such kindness unadulterated by self-interest, nor, for that matter, the last time she'd returned the favor. "Perhaps Trixie has grown too trusting in her old age, but your generosity hasn't ceased to impress her yet. You said you're a fiddler, did you not?"

"That's right," Fiddlesticks said, nodding. Her simplest actions were charged with youthful energy as if she'd always dreamed of performing with her and could barely contain her giddiness at the possibility of getting the chance.

"Trixie will want to hear you play before she gives her consent. She doesn't doubt your abilities, you understand. She just has to be certain that we can make this work." Noting the grammatical incorrectness of saying "we" while referring to herself in the third pony, Trixie couldn't help pondering the implications.

"Of course," Fiddlesticks practically chirped, hopped off the stage, took Trixie's hoof, lead her back to her table, and hailed the bartender. When he arrived, Fiddlesticks ordered a bottle of whiskey, lifted her fiddle case from under the table, pulled out several gold bits, flashed him a sweet smile as he took them in his apron pocket, and asked, "Would you mind terribly if I played a number or two for my friend? We might perform together tomorrow."

Trixie couldn't remember the last time somepony had called her a friend, either. Despite her reservations, a warm, fuzzy feeling was smothering her earlier melancholy in a bear hug.

"Whatever you want, Fiddles," the bartender said as only a middle-aged bartender who's been around the block can, walking back behind the counter to take another order.

Trixie smirked at Fiddlesticks. "Fiddles? Really?"

Fiddlesticks grinned sheepishly and looked like she was trying to hide a blush as she fumbled around in her case. "He's an old friend. I used to play at his bar in Manehattan when I was first starting out."

Trixie levitated the bottle in the pink aura of her magic, and as she poured the pungent amber fluid into two crystal-clear shot glasses, said, "Trixie supposes she'll have to earn the right to call you that."

Fiddlesticks looked up from whatever she had been pretending to do, tilted her head, and said, "I'll tell you what, Trixie. If all goes well tomorrow and you start referring to yourself in the first pony, at least when you're off stage, I'll consider letting you call me Fiddles."

"Trixie—I mean, I think I can manage that."

Fiddlesticks winked, took out her fiddle and bow, and placed the case back on the floor.

Noticing that the string to the far left was severed midway up the neck and curled out at an awkward angle, Trixie said, "One of your strings is broken."

"I only need three." Fiddlesticks downed her shot, lidded her eyes, touched her bow to the remaining strings, and began playing as if there was nothing else in her world.

Trixie listened to the sad, sweet melody, forgetting her drink, her surroundings, and her troubles. All she could do was marvel at how absolutely beautiful Fiddlesticks looked while concentrating on her music and wonder if Fiddlesticks had seen her the same way.


***


Trixie lowered her gaze from the cloudless sky to survey the audience while waiting for Fiddlesticks to join her on the circular wooden platform. Thanks to the bartender's connections, ponies from all over the city were already waiting in the town square by the time she and Fiddlesticks had arrived. Anticipation charged the air like the portent of an impending thunderstorm.

Trixie hadn't performed in front of so many ponies since her last night in Vanhoover before her first visit to Ponyville. She shook her head to clear the memories. Self-doubt was the last thing she needed at the moment. Fortunately, it scrambled back into the dark corners of her mind as she watched Fiddlesticks step onto the stage.

Fiddlesticks stopped a few paces away and looked to her for the signal, her excitement clear in her eyes.

Trixie nodded, braced her hooves, and lit her horn. A tendril of crackling illusory fire slithered and coiled around her until she was completely wreathed and a pillar of illusory smoke twisted up into the sky. She had never learned to fool the other senses, such as smell, but that was probably for the best lest the impression of self-immolation become too realistic.

Fiddlesticks rose to her hind legs—an impressive gymnastic feat that probably took years to perfect but was entirely necessary for most non-unicorns to play instruments—closed her eyes, touched her bow to the strings, and began playing an energetic, upbeat tune.

Elemental duplicates of Trixie stepped forth from her flaming shroud and square danced with each other to the music, the clops of their hooves against the stage punctuated with splashes of fire. More tendrils sprouted from her horn and slithered into the sky, swelling and morphing into two squadrons of pegasus ponies whose rolls, spins, and arcs high above the performance area were accented by smoking contrails and the explosions of fireworks flashing against the rapidly building backdrop of gray clouds.

For a single magician to exert such fine control over such a variety of illusions at once would take years more practice and study than Trixie had. Fortunately, she had help. Before the show, she had cast an amplification enchantment on Fiddlesticks's fiddle so the crowd would be able to hear the notes over the crackling inferno. In a moment of inspiration, she had modified the enchantment to synchronize her magic with Fiddlesticks's playing. It had left her drained and wanting nothing more than to curl up in a warm bed, but it averted any need to worry about coordination. While she poured in the raw energy to sustain the illusions and give them form, Fiddlesticks's music did the rest.

At the end of the first song, the dancers curtsied while the fliers took to circling lazily overhead like burning vultures.

Spurred on by the thundering applause, Fiddlesticks decided to give the audience something to really clop about. Recalling the most elaborate, intensive piece her mentor had ever taught her, she streaked her bow across the strings in such a feverish frenzy that anypony watching would see little more than a yellow-and-brown motion blur.

Taking their cue, the dancers rose to their hind legs and danced a Marish jig with such fervor that each one sent a new pillar of illusory smoke billowing into the rapidly blackening sky.

The fliers spun the smoke into a thick charcoal blanket that veiled the stage in darkness while they weaved in and out, illuminating their paths like sentient needles threaded with fire.

Trixie struggled to remain standing. She didn't have to concentrate on controlling the illusions, but they still drained her magical reserves, and she was on the verge of overtaxing herself. The show must go on, she told herself. If she stopped, she might not be able to start again. Her only hope was to get Fiddlesticks to slow down, but Fiddlesticks couldn't hear her pleas. By the time Trixie tried to cancel the spell, she was too late. Her magic imploded, giving her a head-splitting migraine, her fiery shroud dispersed, and her legs gave out. She wobbled briefly like a stalk of wheat in the wind before crashing to the stage.

The dancers exploded like miniature volcanoes, showering the stage in globs of fire. The smoking fragments twisted into the blackness overhead that continued growing and spiraling unperturbed.

The burning threads melted together, becoming thicker and fewer until only one remained that was wide enough to swallow a pony whole if it felt so inclined.

Trixie ran her hoof along her grooved horn. Sure enough, the magical aura was gone. The illusion had taken on a life of its own. Sulfurous fumes burned her lungs. The stage scorched her belly like a bed of coals, but she couldn't get up. Sweat dripped down her face and sizzled on contact with the polished wood. She dared to look up. Her eyes became saucers and her ears drooped as a flaming serpent tore a gaping hole in the cloud and dived straight toward her. She tried to flee, but her legs refused to budge. She took a deep breath of the suffocating air, and with the last of her strength, let out a blood-chilling scream, "Fiddlesticks!"

Fiddlesticks's eyes shot open and her hoof jerked. A string snapped back and sliced her cheek. Wincing, Fiddlesticks noticed three things in an instant: first, a serpentine pillar of fire was plummeting toward Trixie, second, Trixie was sprawled helplessly on the stage, and third, Trixie's horn was completely dark.

"Trixie!" Fiddlesticks screamed, dropping her fiddle and racing to try to pull her out of the way.

Trixie's wide violet eyes met hers for a split second before the serpent crashed into the stage, incinerated her body, and burst with a shock wave that threw Fiddlesticks off her hooves and into the air.

Fiddlesticks's back hit the stage with a crack. Shielding her eyes from the painful brightness with her foreleg, Fiddlesticks backpedaled away from the broiling heat radiating from the advancing wall of fire. She felt somepony pull her to her hooves and craned her neck to see a steel-maned pegasus pony whose navy-blue coat looked muddy in the shadows and firelight.

Time seemed to stand still as embers carried on the wind reflected in his colorless irises. His weren't the eyes of the friendly bartender who'd looked out for her like a father as she grew up in Manehattan. His were the eyes of the shell-shocked veteran who'd served in a firebombing squadron during the Zebrican-Equestrian War before she was born, burning acres of jungle, villages, stallions, mares, and foals alive. He shouted over the roaring conflagration in an equally alien voice, snapping her out of her trance, "Let's get out of here!"

Fiddlesticks looked back helplessly at the wall of fire. Trixie was burning alive, her screams were inaudible if she wasn't dead already, and there was nothing Fiddlesticks could do. She saw her fiddle just beyond her reach but couldn't muster the strength to grab it, much less get up and run away.

"Come on!" the bartender shouted again, hooking his forelegs under hers and pulling her to her hooves like one would a wounded soldier.

Fiddlesticks found her strength, grabbed her fiddle moments before the flames consumed it, clutched it to her chest with one leg, and cantered off the stage with the other three. As soon as her hooves touched grass, her legs went limp.

Most audience members had scattered, but others were scrambling around the square in aimless hysteria as if the situation wasn't chaotic enough already.

One magenta-maned mare had the sense to scream at the top of her lungs, "Somepony get the fire department!"

The bartender knelt beside Fiddlesticks, pulled her under his wing, and asked in the concerned, paternal tone she hadn't really heard him use since she left Manehattan, "You all right, Fiddles? I'm guessing that wasn't part of the show."

"Do I look all right?" Fiddlesticks asked, looked up at him with eyes that were trying to fight back tears, flung her forelegs around his neck, and sobbed into his mane.

"Water you all so scared of?" one of several firefighters called as he threw the switch on his hose, blasting the stage with an icy torrent. The flames shrunk before snuffing out entirely. What remained of the stage was a sopping mess.

The local pegasus ponies who had regained their bearings worked to clear the fog of steam and smoke.

Fiddlesticks let go of the bartender, wobbled to her hooves, and trotted back onto the stage, crying, "Can you hear me, Trixie? Where are you? Trixie!"

She lost track of her hooves in the fog, tripped on the edge of a shallow, scorched crater, fell into the ashy water, and felt a scrap of fabric floating under her. She pulled her forelegs under herself and leaned back into a kneeling position. She couldn't care less about the water matting her once-elegant tail, staining her hind legs, and seeping through her shirt to soak her fur. All she could do was stare at the charred remains of Trixie's hat and cloak drifting in front of her.

Her vision clouded, the image becoming an amorphous blur of shapes and colors. Her lips quivered. A sob escaped them as she reached out with trembling forelegs, lifted the soaked garments out of the murky water, and squeezed them against her chest. The more she tried to hold back the tears, the more her eyes stung and her stomach twisted. Finally, she gave up, letting them trickle freely down her cheeks, dampen her fur, and seep into the scratch her broken string had left. Remembering the terror and helplessness in Trixie's violet eyes during Trixie's last moments, she clenched her eyes and cried harder.

"There you are," the bartender said as he stepped through the mist. Seeing her kneeling in the puddle and hunched over the dripping lumps of lavender fabric, he stomped his hoof and growled, "Celestia damn it, I should have acted sooner. I could have flown in and pulled her out of the way. I could have gathered a team of pegasus ponies to break up the cloud. I could have done something!"

"No, none of this is your fault," Fiddlesticks sobbed. She glanced up at him with her glistening eyes before they fell back to the puddle. There wasn't even a body for them to bury. The ashes in the water were probably Trixie's. The thought made Fiddlesticks's stomach writhed, but the strength to stand eluded her. "Trixie is dead, and it's all because of my carelessness."

The bartender walked around in front of her, put his hoof on her shoulder, and raised her head to meet his eyes. "Don't say that, you hear? There was nothing you could have done. If you'd gotten to her sooner, you'd be dead too." 

"I hate being powerless," Fiddlesticks muttered too quietly for him to hear.

The bartender cast a wary glance at the sky, where the sun was starting to feel safe enough to emerge from hiding. "Celestia, they could probably see that thing as far off as Hollow Shades."

Fiddlesticks looked up, her tears subsiding as a thought occurred to her. She asked in a quavering voice, "What direction is Hollow Shades?"

The question caught the bartender off guard. "Northwest, I think. About a day's walk from here. Why do you ask?"

Feeling no inclination to answer, Fiddlesticks sniffled, stood, wrung the water from the garments, pressed them to her chest once more, and staggered off the stage with her three free legs.

The bartender followed. "You're not thinking of going there, are you? Why? Hollow Shades is home to all sorts of shifty characters: zebras, bat ponies, and who knows what else. Fiddles, answer me."

Laying her two-stringed fiddle in its case, folding the garments, and pressing them in on top, Fiddlesticks explained, "Last night, Trixie told me she had an appointment with a medium in Hollow Shades. Whether she's really dead, disappeared, or what have you, that medium is my best bet of finding out, and if worse comes to worst... at least I'll have the chance to apologize." She slung her case over her back and turned to give him a weary look. "If you're thinking of trying to talk me out of this, don't bother. You're not going to change my mind."

"You said the same thing when you told me you wanted to become a traveling musician," the bartender said, smiling sagely and brushing a loose strand of her cobalt mane behind her ear. "You just do what you've gotta do, Fiddles."

Fiddlesticks couldn't help smiling back. Not knowing what else to say, she gave him a brief hug before they once again went their separate ways.


***


Fiddlesticks gazed up at the myriad bat ponies hanging upside down from the broad branches crisscrossed overhead, wondering how they kept their grips without claws. She couldn't see past the dense canopy, but their presence and the faint beams of light that shined through indicated the storm had passed and the sun was back in the sky. Rain had pelted her all through the night as she made her way from Fillydelphia, but she hadn't minded. Her hat had kept the water out of her eyes, and damp clothes were better than ash stains in her fur.

Despite blending seamlessly into the forest around it on account of the buildings being made entirely of hollowed trees, Hollow Shades had been easy enough to find—normal trees didn't have doors and windows, after all. Finding the medium was the problem. Fiddlesticks had next to nothing to go on. That all the tree houses looked the same from the ground level didn't help either. If there was a signpost, it would be on one of the rickety bridges overhead, but she didn't feel comfortable waltzing into what might be somepony's home just to get up there. She had considered asking for directions, but the few zebras she'd seen hadn't looked open to conversation. None except the one who had just disrupted her train of thought with his urgent beckoning. Curious, she walked over to him.

"Greetings, outsider," the zebra said, grinning ear to ear as she approached. Before she could offer a greeting, ask for directions, or do much of anything, he produced a jar of vigorously wriggling black fur balls, each of which had eight spindly legs and glowing red slits for eyes. "May I interest you in a spider?"

Taking an instinctive step back, Fiddlesticks gawked at the pitiful creatures and said, "I, uh... appreciate the offer, stranger... but I can't imagine what use I'd have for a spider."

Hanging his head and sighing, the zebra stuffed the jar back in his saddlebag and turned to walk away. "Say no more, city pony, for I understand. You find my wares to be phony and bland."

"Wait!" Fiddlesticks called, unwilling to let what may be her only shot at getting directions slip away.

The zebra stopped in his tracks, his ears perking up.

"I never said that," Fiddlesticks said to buy time and looked aside as if the words she sought might be found among the shrubbery. "Your spiders are certainly the most... exotic merchandise I've seen, but—"

The zebra was by her side with his foreleg hooked over her withers before she knew what had happened. "Does that mean you'll eye one, try one, even buy one?" He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a single polished horseshoe, turned to her with a grin that threatened to split his face in two, and added, "Buy two, and I'll throw in this shoe!"

Fiddlesticks bit back the urge to berate his blatant disregard for her personal space. With carefully measured words, she said, "Well, I never said that either, but I suppose I could make you a deal."

The zebra stared at her with unblinking, inscrutable eyes.

Fiddlesticks shrugged off his foreleg as politely as possible and adjusted her bandanna. "I'm here on business, you see. I have an appointment with a medium who works in the area, and I can't seem to remember where her shop is. If you'll help me, I'll buy all your spiders, but you have to let them go somewhere." Despite the circumstances, she couldn't resist adding, "I imagine they could use the air."

The zebra's eyes glittered like perforated paper cutouts set before a flickering candle. "Ah, you must be Fiddlesticks! Madame Pinkie Pie has been expecting you." He reached into his other saddlebag and offered her two coils of fiddle string. "She said to give you this sinew."

Fiddlesticks stared at the gift as if it was a pair of baby rattlesnakes hoping for her to stretch out her hoof so they could bite it. "How did she know I needed strings? For that matter, how did she know to expect me?"

His bright cyan eyes becoming painfully wide, the zebra dropped the strings, pressed his hoof over her lips, and hissed, "Do not question Madame Pinkie Pie!"

Fiddlesticks stayed rooted in place, momentarily paralyzed by the grave intensity of his stare.

Satisfied that she wasn't planning to spout further blasphemy, the zebra lowered his hoof and leaned in to whisper in her ear, "She has an eye in the sky."

Fiddlesticks looked at him incredulously. She wanted to turn, walk away, and forget such a mentally unhinged individual had ever been born, but her desire for closure stayed her hooves. Besides, she had come this far. Reasoning that he couldn't abuse time and space with her watching, she kept one eye fixed on him as she slowly bent down to pick up the strings and unlatch her case.

She looked away for the briefest moment to slip them into the appropriate pocket. When she looked back, the zebra had predictably disappeared, but a brief survey of the area revealed him standing by a nearby bush, unscrewing the lid from his jar, and dumping out the spiders. She supposed that was just as well and walked over to tap his striped shoulder. Dreading what contrived rhyme he might come up with next, she asked, "Are you ready to take me to Madame Pinkie Pie?"

The zebra turned with a blank look as if noticing her for the first time before smiling, nodding emphatically, pulling aside a swath of branches in the bush to reveal a narrow tunnel, and ushering her in with a wave of his hoof.

"You're kidding," Fiddlesticks tried to reason, part of her knowing full well that he wasn't. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"The spiders know the way," the zebra said, his deadpan confirming her fears. "Follow them through the hay, and you'll soon see that I'm not crazy."

Fiddlesticks glared at him, unmoving. "That's not hay."

The zebra rolled his eyes and said with a heavy, exasperated sigh, "I'm not that good at rhyming, okay?"

"Er, right. Sorry. Didn't mean to offend you." Fiddlesticks knelt before the dark tunnel. She couldn't see the other side. She couldn't believe she was doing this. Despite herself, she disappeared into the bush. When he let the branches swing back into place, the only light was the dim red glow of the spiders skittering ahead of her. As she crawled deeper, the branches scratched her face and tugged at her shirt.


***


The zebra looked around to make sure the street was empty, reached for the zipper at the base of her neck, pulled it down to reveal her light pink back, stepped out of her body suit, and took off her mask. She pulled a purple Saddle Arabian turban out of exactly nowhere and squeezed it over her curly magenta mane. The fluffy lavender feather fitted behind the gold-and-ruby brooch that held the fabric together hung over her eyes. She puckered her lips and blew it back into place. The polished gold crescent hanging from her turban by a string of turquoise beads jingled as she bounced down the side path to the beat of a cheery tune only she could hear.

Making herself comfortable on the cushion beside the table, atop which sat the crystal ball, Pinkie struck a match and lit the oil lamp, bathing the canvas walls and assorted knickknacks with the sort of warm, flickering light ideal for ghost stories.

Fiddlesticks drew back the entrance flap, letting the light spill out into the forest and cast ghoulish shadows on her face, and staggered inside.

Pinkie looked up, fought back a grin, and gestured to the spider clinging to Fiddlesticks's bandanna. "You've got a little..."

"Ah!" Fiddlesticks yelped, brushing the spider away with her hoof.

The spider tumbled to the shag carpet, reoriented itself, and scurried away to take refuge in Pinkie's tail.

Pinkie gave Fiddlesticks a stern look and chided, "Hey, that wasn't very nice." She twisted around to address her tail, "There, there. It's okay. She didn't mean to hurt you."

The spider timidly stepped forth from the long tangles of magenta hair into the musty air.

Pinkie scooped the spider up in her hooves and nuzzled it to her furry cheek.

Fiddlesticks watched in disbelief. Completely at a loss for what to make of the bizarre spectacle, she shook her head and said, "I heard you were expecting me, Madame Pinkie Pie. Does that mean you know why I'm here?"

Pinkie looked up. She didn't scowl. She didn't even frown. Save for the defiance in her eyes, her face was utterly expressionless. Somehow, that was especially disconcerting. Her tone conveyed her indifference more than her words ever could, "I don't care."

Fiddlesticks was speechless. Her mouth moved like a salmon that had miscalculated its jump, landed on the riverbank, and was finding its lack of vocal cords a severe impediment to its attempts to communicate its desperate thirst to the gathered onlookers. For each moment Pinkie's cold eyes bored into her, her heart sunk a little deeper and her stomach wrenched a little tighter. She finally found her voice, "Why not?"

Her gaze warming several degrees and a soft, motherly smile spreading across her face, Pinkie set the spider on the table and nudged it with her snout.

The spider hesitantly crawled over to Fiddlesticks, its needle-like legs poking little holes in the greenish blue table cloth, and looked up at her, its demonic eyes somehow expressing the cautious hope of a puppy that had been kicked for begging but was too hungry to care.

"You didn't apologize," Pinkie explained.

Fiddlesticks's heart beat faster, her muscles tensed, and her bandanna suddenly felt uncomfortably warm and abrasive against her neck. "You have got to be kidding me," she muttered through gritted teeth. Casting a reproachful look at the spider, she raised her voice, "You can't honestly expect me to apologize to—"

The spider trembled and looked back as if it was about to cry.

Fiddlesticks thought she heard it sniffle and wondered if spiders had tear ducts. If they did, and her callousness allowed her to find out, she could probably kiss any help Pinkie might have given her goodbye.

"Ugh, fine," Fiddlesticks sighed in defeat, her anger deflating. She slumped her head to the table and mumbled to the spider, "Look, I'm sorry I swatted you. You startled me is all. Are you..." She couldn't believe she was saying this, "Are you all right?"

The spider leaped onto her face, clung to her snout, pressed its furry body against the bridge of her nose in what probably passed for a hug among spiders, and cooed.

Fiddlesticks hadn't paid much attention in biology class, but she had always considered spiders having no vocal cords to be a dependable, universal truth. Her world view was so shaken by the noise that she barely managed an intelligible response, "I'll, uh... take that as a yes." Feeling profoundly ridiculous but not wanting to offend Pinkie further, Fiddlesticks glanced over the spider's back to find her losing a desperate battle against a fit of giggles. Fiddlesticks's cheeks burned. "What's so funny?"

"You are, silly!" Pinkie said, unable to contain her foalish laughter any longer. She wiped a tear from her eye with her hoof and added, "Oh wow, I wasn't sure you'd actually do it, but then you did! Priceless!"

Fiddlesticks stood and slammed her hooves on the table, causing the spider to scramble up her face for shelter behind the crown of her hat. Her body trembled, as did her voice, "I watched by friend get burned alive yesterday, and I hiked all the way here from Fillydelphia because I thought you could give me some kind of closure, but instead of understanding, instead of trying to help me, you're..." Tears welled in her eyes as she shouted, her voice cracking, "You're screwing around with me!"

Unwilling to give Pinkie the satisfaction of seeing her so broken up, Fiddlesticks turned to leave. Choking on her words, she added, "I thought you could at least let me apologize to her, but if you'd rather go to Tartarus, watch me not stop you!"

Before she heard Pinkie move or processed what had happened, Fiddlesticks felt a foreleg around her withers and another across her chest pull her into a tight hug. Despite her mind telling her to shove Pinkie away and walk out the door, Fiddlesticks couldn't will her legs to move. Were Fiddlesticks being honest with herself, she'd say the gesture felt genuinely comforting.

Pinkie eased her to the floor, unslung Fiddlesticks's case, and rubbed Fiddlesticks's back as one would a distraught foal's. She paid the spider no mind as it crawled into her mane from Fiddlesticks's hat and waited for Fiddlesticks's sobs to subside before saying, "I'm sorry, Fiddlesticks. I really am. It's just that sometimes I get so caught up in having fun that I forget everypony isn't on the same page."

Fiddlesticks looked to her. "What do you mean?"

Pinkie smiled her motherly smile, wiped the tears from Fiddlesticks's eyes, and said in a gentle voice, "Trixie isn't dead."

Her heart swelling, Fiddlesticks whispered as if afraid speaking any louder would alert the universe to its mistake, "How do you know?"

"Madame Pinkie Pie sees all through her eye in the sky," Pinkie said in a perfect mimicry of the voice she'd used when disguised as the zebra.

Fiddlesticks couldn't help smiling. The insanity of it all was just too much. A mirthful chuckle, her first in what felt like forever, escaped her lips.

Pinkie smiled too, and after a few seconds, said, "To answer your question, though, I was expecting you, and I did know why you came here. You may not have noticed me among all those ponies, but I watched you and Trixie perform. I would have stepped in the moment I saw that flaming snake thing shoot out of the sky, but I wouldn't be able to help you if I got sucked into Tartarus too. Celestia knows some of those demons have my number."

"Are you saying Trixie is in Tartarus?" Fiddlesticks asked. She could only assume Trixie had scheduled the appointment for fear of something like this happening and hope of finding a way to prevent it, but for the life of her, she couldn't imagine why it would happen in the first place.

Pinkie shrugged—an impressive feat for a pony. "I just know flaming serpents are the calling card of the Tartaric Prince of Pacts, and he only whisks ponies away like that for breach of contract, so Trixie must have made a deal with him at some point in the past."

Fiddlesticks stood and walked back to the table, grim determination etched on her features. "Contact him."

Pinkie snapped a salute, shuffled back behind the table, waved her hooves over the crystal ball, and mumbled some arcane gibberish. The mist behind the mint-green glass swirled aside to unveil the head and neck of a crimson-coated unicorn with an oily black pompadour.

The unicorn leveled his soulless gray eyes on Pinkie and said in the voice a used-carriage salespony might when he got the feeling his customer was trying to rip him off, "This is the Tartaric Prince of Pacts speaking. How may I help you?"

Her lips sealed, Pinkie pointed across the table at Fiddlesticks.

The unicorn glanced over where his shoulder would be before turning fully, grinning a devilish grin, and waving his cloven hoof. "Ah, hello, Fiddlesticks. How nice to see you again. I'm sorry I had to crash your performance, but a deal is a deal, and Trixie failed to uphold her end, thus damning herself to eternal torment in the inflamed bowels of Tartarus. I'll happily compensate you for any lost wages. Perhaps I can interest you in a contract. I could always use more entertainers."

Fiddlesticks scowled at him with enough ferocity to make a full-grown dragon take its business elsewhere. "I'm rescuing Trixie, and if you want to keep your jaw attached to your skull, you'd better not be around when I get there. Do we understand each other?"

"I'll get back to you on that," the unicorn deadpanned and disappeared in a puff of sparkling crimson dust, leaving the ball opaque once more.

"Ooh, he hung up on you," Pinkie said. "Then again, I suppose you did threaten him. I hope you're ready to follow up on that. He takes pacts more seriously than I take Pinkie promises."

Fiddlesticks chuckled with an unsettling lack of mirth, tossed a sack of bits on the table, slung her case, and turned to leave.

"What's this?" Pinkie asked, peering into the sack at the polished gold coins stamped with Celestia's profile.

Fiddlesticks cast a confused look over her shoulder. "It's your payment. What else would it be?"

"Oh, I don't need payment. I don't even work here!"

Fiddlesticks was about to ask but thought better of it. "Be that as it may, I doubt I'll need bits where I'm going."

"Okie dokie lokie. Say 'hi' to your marefriend for me!"

Fiddlesticks turned away to hide her flushed cheeks as her heart gave a little flutter. "Trixie is not my marefriend."

"Oops, sorry. I forgot that doesn't happen until later in the narrative." Before Fiddlesticks could argue the point further, Pinkie pushed her the rest of the way out of the tent. "Bye, Fiddlesticks! Have fun in Tartarus! If you two come out of there alive and you ever find yourselves back in Ponyville, be sure to pay me a visit. We can share a strawberry tart!"

Upon stepping into the shady forest, Fiddlesticks sighed blissfully at the cool, tranquil air against her face. She contemplated the tunnel through the bushes from which she'd emerged earlier but caught sight of a trail back to the main road. Deliberately ignoring the implications, she began walking. She knew from one of Applejack's stories that Tartarus was somewhere around Ponyville, but that wasn't where she was going. At that moment, she just needed a place to sit.

Along the side of the road, she found a bench, collapsed into it, and breathed deeply. Her case was digging into her back, so she took it off. After a moment's thought, she opened it, took out her fiddle, and began replacing the broken strings.

As she adjusted the tension on the first string, a tuft of lavender fabric caught her eye. She looked to see the folded garments still sitting in her case where she'd left them. Looking back to her fiddle and stretching the second string taut, she threaded the tip through the tuning peg, wound up the excess, and asked herself why she was about to march into the depths of Tartarus for a mare she'd known for less than a week. She wondered if the solitary life of a traveling musician had made her that desperate for companionship.

She brushed the thought aside and stowed her fiddle, reasoning that she could fine-tune it along the way. Regardless of any feelings she may have for Trixie, Fiddlesticks could reasonably assume, by some twist of logic, that Trixie's imprisonment was as much her fault as Trixie's. With that in mind, Fiddlesticks rose to her hooves, slung her case, and began the long hike back to Fillydelphia.