//------------------------------// // Goodbye Trixie // Story: Background Currents // by Artrageous //------------------------------// A figure slipped quietly into the camp. It was a camp only in name. The cooking fire had been cold for a long time, extinguished then buried at twilight. A small tent had been pitched inside a bush, directly between it and a tree, and disguised by downed foliage. The intruder drew a long, thin blade with a truncated stabbing point. He wore clothes that concealed his face, flanks, mane and tail, muffled the sound of his movements and helped him blend into the wilderness and darkness. With fluid visciousness, he stabbed the tent, aiming for the centre of mass of the occupant. The blade penetrated an easy, then solid resistance. Immediate he spun to face an attack from behind. He had hit wood, wrapped in cloth, not the complex structure of a pony’s body. Then his hooves left the ground. A wire garrote was cinched beneath his jaw, lifting him, cutting into his flesh. Choking him. He swung overhead. The first blow glanced along the wire. His neck was bleeding, his struggles cutting the wire deeper like a slow guillotine. The second was better aimed, it hit the wire, and the branch it was hanging him from. The two snapped. He fell, twisting. A stake grazed his left hind leg. He anticipated the trap, and the attack with it. His blade came up, deflecting a thrust and riposting along its length. For good measure he flung ground glass at eye height. His opponent did the same, as he inhaled. He would have taken glass into his lungs without his protection. His eyes were fine. The moon glinted off the tiny shards trapped in the fine mesh covering his face, it was like fighting surrounded by stars. The opponent waited till he inhaled, good technique! His neck stung, the wire had cut in and he was bleeding, but it had not worked through all the muscle and sinew. It had gone slack enough to be an irritant, just as the blood flowing from his throat was. A few shards of glass were caught in the flow, also unimportant. The cut on his flank was likewise a minor scratch. For all intents and purposes he was at full fighting strength, and knew he could take his target under the current conditions. They fought. Two shadows with flashes of moonlight between them, and the ringing of bells. Swift, automatic, instinctive responses to infinitesimal cues. Guard, turn, parry, dodge, spin, thrust. He slid his hooves, plowing caltrops out of the way, every trick of advantage anticipated and spoiled. He could feel the opponent’s attacks weakening, vibrations in the thrust, blocks becoming weak. His victory was assured. Except, the stars in front of his eyes were glowing brighter. The blade’s flash was prolonging, becoming a searing arc that persisted on his vision, obscuring other details. It was growing harder to tell where his opponent lay, what the next move would be, he was fighting by feel and sound alone. The spike! He had time to think. It has been coated with a poison, enough to make him go blind, or the garrote. One of them, combined with the exertion, and he lost his edge. With a sickening finality, he felt a sharp force punch through his chest, skewering him. He hooked his hoof on the hilt, and with his remaining strength thrust his blade in the return direction. He felt the soft, yet firm resistance of a sword cutting into flesh, then the jarring stop as it hit bone. No sound. He thrust again, striking up for the weapon arm, and was rewarded with another cut and a squeak of pain. Pulling his blade back for a third time, he lunged to bury it in her chest. He felt the tip touch, penetrate, then the blade twist on his hoof and fall down. The ground rose up to meet him, slamming the hilt even harder against his chest. He was drowning. At the most, he had mutilated her arms, tagged her with a poison she most certainly had the antidote to. Perhaps he had smoothed the way for a successor, but he had failed, and things grew darker. The body was lifeless when she severed the head and gouged out the eyes. His last visions would have revealed nothing, but the Discipline must always be followed. She slices off his cutie-marks, giving him the anonymity in death he practiced in life and bundled those strips into his mouth with a nugget of phosphorus, positioning it to burn into his braincase. She took his blade, adding it to the others. She would dismember his body, travel a mile, then throw the parts into the underbrush. As she finished her preparations, she said a final prayer in a foreign tongue. “I honour you, my ancestors, with the blood of my enemy, spilt in defense of our house and name. Use it to grow strong.” It’s a simple, automatic gesture from time immemorial. Except some things are started for a reason, and some things forgotten for a reason. As pony blood shed by pony hatred seeps into the ground of the Everfree forest, its symbolism and the prayer combine to awaken an ancient power. It attaches itself to the source of the discord. It’s weak, but it will grow, and it follows the defender’s path like a sickly shadow. * * * * * * Morning arrived. Artrageous could tell everything was covered in dew, because he was a part of that everything. His wings, his back, his legs, all parts of him her stiff and aching. He stood, or tried to stand, the first few attempts his hooves shot out from under him and he belly-flopped back on the top of his cart. I’m never sleeping like this again, he thought. No matter how long it takes, next time find a cloud or build a cloud. He hopped down to the ground and went through is warm up routines, to get the blood flowing. He was also hungry. Well, there was grass, but he didn’t feel inclined to graze for a couple hours to get full, and he wanted something with flavour. I suppose it can be a backup plan, he thought, funny it didn’t occur to me last night. He was so accustomed to food that was much more energy efficient, it had slipped his mind. Trixie’s too, apparently. The mare in question was also awake. She came out of her wagon and said “Hello” pleasantly, and picked up the pots and utensils from the night before. She knew at least one practical spell, one for doing dishes, and they all glowed briefly before becoming clean and then she packed them away. Artrageous watched her, he wasn’t sure what to say, he didn’t have anything to do. His departure preparations consisted of slipping his harness on, and Trixie didn’t have that much more to do either. Packing up the camp only took her a few minutes. She trotted over. “Are you planning on travelling with me today?” “I guess,” Arty replied, wondering if flying would be faster, “where does the road go?” “It’s straight through the farmlands. At a decent pace, late in the afternoon it branches, heading north to Ypslanti, and the other fork leading to Canterlot. It’s not possible to reach a town, but it’s a bit more civilized so there are plenty of places to stay.” “Okay, at least as far as the fork then.” “All right. I’ll lead.” She turned and went back to her wagon. She put on her harness, she was using a pad, and her horn then the straps glowed. She leaned forward hard, her four legs straining as she struggled with the static weight of her wagon. The wheels glowed and she moved forward. She didn’t look at him once as she passed, and she wasn’t waiting for him. Arty jumped to the front of his cart and nosed into his collar. It was repulsive, it was grimey from yesterday and dew had not improved it. It settled cold, and clammy about his shoulders. He would have to get a blanket and peeled his lips at the taste of the strap. A lurch forward, and he was rolling too. He pulled his cart back onto the road and plodded after Trixie. She didn’t talk. She would answer questions, if Art employed ‘the Great and Powerful’ label, provided they were about the route or journey. Any other subject, like last night or herself, prompted a “She has said enough” response, and all her answers were succinct and discouraged conversation. Occasionally she would say, “there is an interesting rock formation to your right” and other such panoramic information but there was no continuance. It wasn’t exactly snubbing him, but it wasn’t yesterday either. Artrageous wondered about this, Trixie was acting strangely... professional. Perhaps at one point in the past she had worked with a troupe or other showponies and obviously there would be some she didn’t get along with. On second thought, perhaps there might have been a couple she did get along with. The others, well, she’d have to have some sort of functional, show-must-go-on, personality and this was what she was employing with Art now. It was a pity, because he was liking her a lot more this way, even though she seemed distant, disconnected. So they travelled alone, together. Trixie eventually stopped saying things about the landscape, it was pretty, and that could be pointed out only so many times. Art drifted into a meditative plod where he stared at the back of her wagon and maintained distance. On the up-hills where it looked like she was having difficulty, he planted his head against it, flapped wings and helped push. Her wagon wheels glowed, she could have managed without him, he helped anyhow. It was not remarked upon. The day stretched on. As the shadows were starting to lengthen, her wagon slowed, then stopped. Trixie didn’t get out of her harness, she shouted at him from inside the lines, “The road splits here. You will be going your own way.” “Okay.” “The Great and Powerful Trixie has won the challenge of being nice, but you didn’t have to make it so easy.” “I think we both lost.” “Yes.” Her wagon wheels started glowing, and then the rig lumbered forward, “but you lost more. Bye pegasus.” “Goodbye Trixie,” Artrageous slammed into his collar and started dragging his load down the other fork. Then he thought, I can fly, I don’t need this, and he flapped his wings and started up into the sky. Below, as her wagon was disappearing under the trees, Trixie called out, “It’s the ‘Great and Powerful Trixie’, I’m the greatest magician you’ve ever seen and I can do anything.” He didn’t reply, it was obvious why she kept saying that, but he felt there was no point reciprocating.