The Last Illusion

by ScientistWD

A Wonderful Stew Prepared by Miss Doo, and a Likewise Auspicious S'More

Ta-da! Trixie had said. With a riveting display, she had draped her cape like a mystifying curtain, only to pull it back and reveal a shabby two-bit cart. Decorated with an oven, a small stove, a few cupboards and cabinets, a little fold-up cutting board; the thing was, while somewhat crudely put together, all in all charming. Of course, this had come to pass ages ago. The sun had sunk since, casting one or two long shadows over a stump and log they had found a few paces off of the path. They would serve well as a makeshift dining area; two bowls and a spoon were already set.

For now, Miss Doo watched a stew of prepared potatoes, carrots, peppers, and onions. She had cut each into clean pieces (“mostly clean” pieces) of varying sizes depending on its identity. Carrots were divided finely into small coins, which rose in the murk from time to time. The potatoes, from a stash Miss Doo had packed for the journey, were cut bluntly, and floated stoically. Larger pieces could absorb more flavor. The onions, of course, had naturally vanished entirely once cooked. And lastly, though the green peppers Miss Doo had found were small; their snippets could occasionally be seen floating among the stew's contents. Their impact would be significant; a bit of spice to the typical savoriness of stew would be welcome. Something so mundane given a touch of fire. So in spite of the inevitable mess she had made, Miss Doo beamed to herself before the boiling stew. Its aroma meandered into her nostrils on white wisps. And when it did, her pride climaxed into a quiet chuckle. A laugh like a ringing bell.

Trixie was nearby, of course. She was reading beneath a tree, a tome titled Unorthadoxicon: Powerful Magic Beyond Practicality. Her eyes walked lazily over the poorly lit words, checking for dust beside “converging mesospace” and “Ponyfusion”. Pages turned. For lack of a better term, they did so condescendingly, standing no chance against her scrutiny. But suddenly, the magician let the book fall, and looked to the sky. Late afternoon. Wind tickling her cape, grass grazing her fur. A sigh escaped; nothing to see here.

That is, until the chuckle from Miss Doo broke her focus. Her eyebrow went up, watching that mare stir their impending dinner with a slender ladle. Scoffing, Trixie leaned back against the tree, covering her eyes with her hat. She let her hindlegs sway in the wind. Back and forth, several times every few seconds. Only the whistling trees and gently bubbling stew filled the silence now.

“What are you doing?” Trixie asked, having Miss Doo turn around to meet her. The showmare had climbed from her lounge to peer over her shoulder. “Trixie demands to know.”

“Finishing the stew,” the mare hummed. “This should last us awhile! I added potatoes and flour and—“

“Trixie knows how to make stew, Miss Doo,” Trixie added haughtily.

“But then,” the grey mare whispered, as if she was telling a secret. “Why did you ask if you already knew?” Miss Doo smiled.

“Trixie… uhm…” A nervous smile flashed, quickly gone, as her eyes surveyed the counter to hastily search for something less relevant. A brief “tsk” accompanied several short pepper scraps, as her magic lifted them from the table. “Trixie does not usually add spicy vegetables.”

“Oh!” Miss Doo gasped. “I do sometimes! Sorry, I found them a little bit ago. I probably should have asked, huh? But I’ll bet that you’ll still like it, I hope.”

“No matter.” The stems drifted down the counter, soon disposed of. “Someone Great and Powerful as Trixie will not be so picky.”

“So, are you ready to eat it?”

“Hmm…” Trixie stole a glance at the scribe, now resting across the countertop. Closed, of course, as the mares had left it. She breathed a disappointed sigh. Perhaps they thought it idle? A scribe may be covert from time to time.

“I suppose it is only dinner; tales of my exploits are sure to come soon enough.” She and Miss Doo met on the overturned log they would be using tonight, and she fluttered her cape purposefully to make her action more dramatic. Her posture was tall, pompous, and graceful, never batting an eye. “I imagine our dinner is ready?” she asked, ladling herself a few pints.

“Yep! Could still be pretty hot, though.” Miss Doo smiled as she took her seat and scooped some into her own bowl manually. She kicked her hind legs with mild joy once it was prepared. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. The sun had gone down, memories of orange and promises of stars were in the sky. Trixie’s nearby fire, a spell she had used masterfully, was homely; its flame stayed tame and close to the ground. It flickered, rocking slowly, as if remembering. Insects chirped, as well. They never bothered Trixie nor Miss Doo, but their chorus echoed nonetheless. Miss Doo picked up her bowl from their wooden stump, or makeshift dinner table.

“Hey,” she started before taking a bite. “Wanna have the s’mores after this?”

Trixie had been interrupted. “Very well, if you’re so eager.” Resuming, she brought a spoon to her lips.

“Oh! How is it?” Miss Doo asked, giving Trixie an expectant look.

“Hmm. It is acceptab…” Trixie’s breath gave way to a dry gasp as her sentence was cut off. Her face and brow quickly constricted as a second heave followed. “H-h-horseapples…” she cursed with little air she had. The bowl and spoon nearly fell to the stump in haste; Trixie climbed to her hooves. A water bottle produced itself from inside her cape, hovering to her side as she undid its seal and guzzled a few mouthfuls.

“Oh… is it really that bad?” Miss Doo slurped a sample from her own bowl, only to similarly contort her face. She shook her head as it fell, ending with a rough breath and gaping mouth. “Oops,” she let out as Trixie regained her composure.

“It is… a violent concoction, but it will do.” She pocketed her bottle again.

Miss Doo spoke with a weak and fallen voice. “Heh… messed up again.” She rubbed her hind hooves together nervously, and the lashes on her eyes helped her mane hide her eyes. "I’m sorry.”

“No matter. Trixie will make it bearable.” A flash from her horn streamed to the stew left in the pot, lingering for a few brief moments. “This should reduce it to tolerable levels,” she added, twirling her spoon in midair. “A little spell to cool those flames. Trixie is not used to spells so mundane and simple, but then again there is little she cannot do.” A bit of the magic made its way to her bowl, and the spoon she filled for a second attempt. She swallowed. “Mmm, perfect. Much more mild, though the sharp aftertaste remains.” She took another spoonful, sure to obtain a chunk of potato. “A job well done, if I do say so myself.”

Miss Doo watched Trixie take her fourth, then fifth bites, and watched her grin to herself as well. The pegasus then let out a breath. Her crooked gaze looked down to the glow now fading from her own bowl as the spell completed. She brushed bits of blonde mane from her face, and took another slurp. It was good. Probably. It likely tasted very good.

Observers to this scene would easily deduce that Trixie was satisfied with the stew in its current state. She had said so. Mmm, perfect, a chilled grin on her lips; the signs were quite clear. And since Miss Doo did not cringe nor flinch when slurping her share, one could surmise that she felt the same way. At least from an objective standard, which Trixie had ideally been taking, the conclusion that it was the case that Miss Doo had tasted good soup ought be allowed.

Oh. Miss Doo’s lips have fallen gently into a frown, like a drifting feather. Is the stew bitter?

“You’re pretty good at this magic stuff, huh?”

“Indeed, she is,” Trixie continued, prideful words muffled and bubbled by inbound stew. “As much goes without saying, of course.”

“Right, right.” Miss Doo paused. She slurped again from her bowl, struggling a bit to take in lumps of potato. She licked her lips, staring for a moment at the fire. Its crackle filled the silence briefly. Her eyes perked up again. “So what’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever done?” she asked, as if the question had arrived on a leaf.

“Uhm. Ahem.” An empty bowl gently clinked onto the stump, caught suddenly off guard. A floating ladle soon refilled it. It did not miss a drop, but Trixie slipped on her answer. “It… it’s hard to say, really. Trixie has done a great many things.”

“Yeah, yeah, but… I kinda thought some of that stuff was just for show?”

“Of-of course not. What Trixie says is true; all of her feats are as described. Each and every one of them!”

“What? No way! You really studied what’s-a-physics at University?”

“Mesophysics, yes.” She set her filled bowl in her lap.

“And you made a train disappear?”

“Indeed, Miss Doo.” She haughtily slurped a share of stew, glaring through an open eye.

“And you went to Baltimare and the Dragon Kingdo—!?”

“Yes! Now quiet, please, while Trixie eats…!” she stammered, cradling her emptying bowl. “W-why are you questioning her…!? She’s been nothing but kind!”

“I… I’m sorry, Trixie, it’s just so unbelievable. All that stuff, the way you tell it, it seems kind of… kind of… kind of….” Miss Doo let herself linger. Setting down her bowl, scratching her chin, she looked up as she struggled for words. Her hoof tapped on her leg, struggling dearly to remember. She squinted. Whatever answer she sought from the sky at this time, it was hidden behind a blanket of blue nighttime clouds. She looked back at Trixie once she’d given up. “You know what I mean, right?”

Certainly, Miss Doo, something about this pony was not adding up.

Trixie was fetching the lingering vegetables from her second helping. She sighed as she did so. It trembled, just a bit. “No, Miss Doo,” she articulated, pointedly and with emphasis. She tossed the bowl onto the stump. It clanked.

“Trixie.”

A fluttering pause.

"Does not.”

These words were set above the rest.

“‘Know what you mean’. Now Miss Doo, do you want your precious s’mores or would you rather we part ways and turn in tonight?”

Miss Doo passed Trixie a worried look, to which she did not reciprocate. Rather, the showmare’s purple eyes were downcast, invisible behind the brim of her hat. The rest of Trixie’s words simply fell to the ground like blunt toothpicks. Her flat, white teeth had ground them all up in a flacid, subtle kind of frown.

Miss Doo almost whispered. “Oh…” She turned away, submissive. "I’ll toss the stew, then, I guess.” Miss Doo shakily rose to her hooves, grabbing for the pot and beginning to drag it away. It still contained liquid, so its weight gargled about as she carried it.

“What are you doing?” snapped Trixie, raising her gaze and darting to Miss Doo and the pot with her eyes.

“Um? Throwing the stew away? Wasn’t it too—?”

“No,” she sneered. Hastily, the large pot was magically forced from Miss Doo, and took a comfortable spot on the stump, its lid to soon join. “Trixie will finish it tomorrow. Now. Have at your s’mores.” Miss Doo’s saddlebags magically found their way from the spot by the counter to the stump. Trixie stood on the log, and via her magic it slowly, but aggressively, hovered in the air and began to travel. “Trixie is reading and then going to bed.” The log seat landed in front of the fire with a thud, and Trixie stepped off of it. “Do tell if you need anything, Miss Doo. Goodnight.”

And with that, Trixie pulled a book and blanket from her cape and settled near the fire.

Leaving Miss Doo to stand alone, slightly dumbfounded. “Okay, um. Goodnight?” she tried. She looked at Trixie. Her back was to her; she was using light from the fire to read lazily. But it was clear that she was not asleep, or yet attempting to. Though she had not been focused on reading.

Miss Doo retrieved the two roasting sticks that she had prepared earlier from underneath the counter. She only speared a marshmallow on one of them, and held it towards the stout flame. It may not have been large, but it was hot enough.

“Sigh,” she sighed, sighing the actual word “sigh” with a sigh-sounding breath. Perhaps it was the case that she was exceptionally bored, or put off. She took a moment to look behind her, back to the counter. Trixie must normally do all the cooking herself, using the magic-powered heating element to make all her own meals. She could unearth cans of preserved carrots or peas, heat them up on the stove. Oats, too, for breakfast perhaps. Scanning the cramped cupboard space for a few utensils, only one pot, pan, and plate. Fortunate that Trixie had found an extra bowl. Chipped and mismatched, like the rest of the cart, but functioning. Functioning enough to serve a single pony a single meal at a time, for quite a long time.

What a quaint little invention the little kitchenette was.

“So… I guess she didn’t hate my soup?” Miss Doo half-asked, half-murmured.

“It is beyond me,” Trixie said, words suddenly clear as conversation. “how you thought Trixie disliked it when she ate almost half the pot on her own. Two days, as you said Miss Doo. The spice did it well, but please use discretion next time.” She had not turned around, but the conversation continued.

“Yeah…! Sorry, I didn’t know! Those peppers were wild. A little too wild, huh?”

“Ha…!” Trixie had laughed. “Yeah, they were.”

“I swear, I did much better at my own place. I took pretty good care of myself. Made stew like, once a week.”

“Trixie, too. It is simple, keeps well, and tastes quite good.”

“See, that’s what I told my mom! She says stuff like ‘A mare can’t live on just stew forever, Ditzy! She’s gotta take better care of herself.’ or something. I think I’m doing okay. Stew is good; why try harder for disappointment?”

“Perhaps for stew, Miss Doo, but consider this:” Trixie retorted. “Trixie cannot live a life asking 'why try harder?'. Nopony would bat an eye at her, and she’d be right out of business! She always strives for higher, always for new heights and achievements. Humph,” she nodded. "It gives her life meaning.”

“Yeah, yeah, but…” Miss Doo mulled her marshmallow over before continuing. “But that’s your job, Trixie! You’re extraordinary. I just have a normal, simple life. I can’t imagine living a life like yours, Trixie.”

“Ha. Perhaps. For neither Trixie, yours, Miss Doo.”

“No kidding! I can’t imagine you with a stallion or anything.”

“Excuse me?” Trixie set down her book. Her head turned to face Miss Doo, real concern and inquiry on her face.

“Ah!” Simultaneously, Miss Doo’s marshmallow had been discovered far overdone. “Oh gosh… Let me start over.” She gobbled the scalding remains of the first, and resumed after preparing another. "I just mean… my mom’s told me pretty much since school to find a special somepony; she says that’s when life really starts, but there are lots of ponies that live a fulfilling single life, you know? I’ve met ponies in Ponyville like that, like Blossomforth and Rainbow Dash. Lyra and Bon are best friends, no stallions there! I just… my life is fine just the way it is, right? I mean… Trixie?”

Trixie had set her book down, and was laying cozily near the fire. She had been watching it longingly when her name got her attention. “Yes, Miss Doo?”

“Have you ever been in love?”

A moment passed, and contemplation settled on Trixie’s face. She hmmmed a small “hmmm”, directed mostly at the grass. Her hoof tapped her chin, and her mouth drew into a small frown.

“No,” she came firmly. “She has not. Trixie has no room for ‘love’.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been, either. I’ve had some stallions say they’ll ‘whisk me away’, or make me breakfast every day, or step in front of carriages to save my life and stuff, but… I don’t know. None of that ever really made me love or anything…!”

The tip of Miss Doo’s sentence was punctuated by a combination of surprise and awe. The marshmallow that she had been roasting, now beneath her sparkling eyes for appraisal, had turned a delicate beige. Not unlike a maple leaf in autumn, its orange-brown blush had been coaxed to life. Perhaps it was the warmth of Miss Doo’s smile that had done so. “It’s perrrrfect…!” she cooed. Quickly and without hesitation, a house was built for it from sweet chocolate and crumbly grahams. A gentle push christened the abode. Chocolate melted, but not over the edge quite yet. Home at last. “And now,” Miss Doo began triumphantly, holding it a hoof’s length from her nose, a delicate melody whose climax dangled on the edge of an ellipsis…

Trixie watched, quizzically and perhaps critically. A sweet “crunch” and soft, muffled groan were all that stood between that s’more and oblivion.

“Hm? Whhat?” came a purr from Miss Doo’s full mouth.

“Ah! Nothing, I… It’s nothing, Miss Doo. Goodnight.” Trixie lowered her head to the ground, her hat dismounting as a substitute pillow.

“Oh… okay. Goodnight, Trixie.” Miss Doo, satisfied, cleaned her hooves best she could and began putting supplies away at the cupboard. The kitchenware clattered.

The showmare turned once while laying down, eyebrows furrowing back and forth with her thoughts. “Trixie is sure to have something similar someday. If she wanted, perhaps. Surely, there are stallions that could come close to her level, her power. But no, not yet. It’s not the right time for her. Sometime, though. After all, what’s not to love about Trixie...?"

Author's Note:

Lyra and BonBon...
Best Friends...
Ha. Get it?