The Life I Chose

Nopony chose this life for me.

I think back on this simple truth as I pull my wagon over hills, through valleys, and across rivers. It’s funny to me that this is the one thing I keep coming back to. This one thought.

I’ve been all across Equestria. From the shimmering spires of Canterlot to the marble maze of Roam, I’ve seen it all. From singing in the rain to burying my face in a tankard of hard cider, I’ve done it all. I’ve been to the top of the mountain and to the bottom of the pit; I’ve been the life of the town and its most despised wanderer. The hero, the nopony, and everyone in between.

And I don’t regret a minute of it.

Nothing in my life has ever been the same. Nothing except for me and my thoughts. I’ve changed wagons so many times throughout my journey that I can’t even recall what the first one looked like. I can’t guarantee myself or anypony else whether I’ll be safe at night or whether I’ll have a full stomach when I finally lay my weary head down on an old pillow I bought on some forgotten tour. Hay, even my signature hat and cape weren’t a part of my standard attire until four or five years back.

I find what I figure is a safe spot on the road between Trottingham and Manehatten and pull over. Unhitching myself from the wagon, I finally allow my shoulders to breathe for the first time in what must be nearing six hours. I had been walking since early morning, pausing only for an hour to eat lunch at some roadside market before moving on again. I make a quick consultation with my map, taking careful detail to note the bends in the river and the shape of the road. By my guess, I must have made twenty-five miles today. Not bad at all.

This looks like a pretty good place to make camp. A short distance away from the road is a nice hollow surrounded by trees. A small circle of stones lies in the ground, around which a few tree trunks are placed. I don’t know who was here before me, nor do I particularly wonder, but if this campsite was good enough for them, then it sure as Tartarus is good enough for me.

It’s a simple chore to gather dead branches and brushwood from the surrounding vegetation, but a necessary one. A few minutes of snooping rewards me with a sizeable pile of fuel for the fire. One by one, I pile the larger sticks onto the bottom, thinning out towards tinder and birch bark at the top. With a carefully placed spark from my horn, I’m able to start a small fire. In time, with careful nourishment and attention, it grows into a proud and roaring fire.

That was something I was lacking when I was young.

As Princess Celestia lowers her sun and Luna raises the stars and moon in its place, I afford myself time to make a simple stew of carrots, cabbage, and potatoes. With water from the river and a carefully rationed use of supplies, I soon have what is considered, by my own standards, a fairly decent meal. I can hardly wait for the bowl I pour myself to cool before I begin to dig in with a ravenous hunger.

Once I curb my appetite with the first bowl, I eat the second serving quite slowly. I take the time to listen to the birds singing their lovely goodnight melodies to each other before they quiet down. Somewhere in the distance I hear the gentle sloshing of the stream around the rocks. With a sigh, I finish the last of the stew and set the bowl aside.

I lean back, stretch my hooves to the night sky, and lay there on the cool grass. It was such a beautiful night tonight. There was even the faintest wisp of an aurora off towards the north. I smile as I think of the single tour I’ve done in the Crystal Empire since Twilight and her friends defeated King Sombra.

Twilight. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t even look at the sky the way I do now. So many things have changed since I visited Ponyville for the first time. And you know what? I’m honestly thankful for that.

Memory after memory begins to play before my eyes like images from an old and dusty slide projector. While the lessons I learned in Ponyville stand out bright and sharp, those from years ago have a much stronger emotional connection in the muted sepia of their visual details. I turn over each one, like I do every night, and start from the beginning.

I don’t remember much of my foalhood. Then again, I don’t suppose many ponies do. All I know is from what the pictures show me and the stories my mother told. How she had always dreamed of having a daughter. How the name ‘Trixie Lulamoon’ was the name of her great grandmother, one of the greatest archmages in Celestia’s court. How I moved my first blocks with my Arcana when I wasn’t even two years old. How I was destined to be the greatest unicorn the world had ever seen.

All of this before I was seven, too. Sometimes I wonder what we would have done had she lived longer.

A single tear comes to my eye when I think about that day. I asked the strange stallion who had suddenly come to my side why. Why was everypony in black? Why couldn’t I go see mama? Why didn’t she want to wake up and play with me?

I vaguely remember words being spoken and a lot of crying. I vaguely remember walking behind a dozen other ponies in a slow procession through the streets of Canterlot. I vaguely remember a grassy field filled with hundreds of stones wedged into the ground.

I distinctly remembered when they lowered the casket into the open grave. Some foal’s instinct clicked in me, and then I understood. Mama wasn’t coming back. The finality that was the brown earth said as much.

They tried to get me to move away, but I wouldn’t. I just sat there, crying, bawling for hours on top of the fresh mound of earth that constituted my mother’s grave. When they finally did move me, it was after I had cried myself to sleep.

I found out when I was older that she had a massive heart attack while I was playing in the streets with some other fillies. By the time the neighbors had found her, it was too late. Much, much too late. The last thing I remember was her loving smile as she ushered me out the door, snacks in tow. How she lovingly chirped that she was going to make spaghetti and hayballs when I got back. How she begged me to be safe in that way that all mothers do.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a few shuddering breaths. It’s all I can do for a long time. By the time I finally regain control of my emotions, the fire has died down awfully low. Hoofing a few twigs and sticks into the pile, I’m able to successfully resurrect the cheery orange flames. I feel the heat return to my coat, even though at this point I don’t really need it. It’s a cool midsummer’s night, the kind I realized I enjoy after many bitter years on the road.

The week after my mother died was the first day of school. I was lost, confused, and scared. My father, whom I had never met before, walked me in the first day, but as soon as I was in the door he turned around and left. I found myself alone in a strange place I didn’t understand, surrounded by other colts and fillies with their own loving parents.

I was jealous.

Life had taken from me that which I considered most precious. For the next few years, I studied and worked and practiced my magic whenever I could. I learned how to manipulate the world around me in ways that should not have been possible according to the laws of physics. Explosions of color out of thin air; entrancing illusions that fooled even the brightest of my classmates; in time, I turned these magic tricks into routines. From routines, I made shows. Soon I learned how to lead from one trick to the next; how to wear the performer’s mask; how to act and how to stage my illusions for their maximum effect. Yet still, I didn’t have my Cutie Mark. Every day that I mastered a new trick I expected it to appear. Every day I was disappointed. I began to get depressed and angry. My friends, those few that I had, wouldn’t let me be like that. They encouraged me to do my first show.

I smile as I trace the constellations with my hoof. That first show was a truly magical experience. With nothing more than a wooden crate and a few curtains to stage my illusions from, I set up shop on a street corner in front of the royal palace. I distinctly remember how I felt. My knees wouldn’t stop knocking and I could hardly breathe. The salty taste of my own nervous sweat made me all the more thirsty. As a small crowd of expectant ponies began to mill around me, my pulse soared, and with a nervous grit to my teeth I began my first routine.

They were simple tricks really, but they enthralled the crowd. With each new round of applause, I eased a little bit more into my performance. By the end, I was smiling a cocky smile and exchanging jokes with the ponies around me. The small umbrella I had placed on the ground at the beginning of the show, empty, was nearly filled with bits and bit-cents. When I closed my performance only two hours after it began, I was much, much wealthier than when I began.

Perhaps the greatest magic trick from that first show was what I discovered when I came home. I didn’t notice it at first; I usually tried to avoid my father whenever I could. There was, as usual, a disgusting pile of half-emptied cans of beer lying on the kitchen floor. I could hear the drunken snoring of my father from somewhere in the living room. Quiet as a mouse, I had sneaked into my room and set aside my things, careful to hide my new money somewhere my father wouldn’t find it and spend it on alcohol. Then, removing the simple show hat a friend had loaned me, I turned and faced the mirror.

A wand and a stroke of magic aura set against a beautiful shade of blue.

It took me far longer than I care to admit for my bewildered mind to draw the connections. That blue was the color of my coat. That wand and that aura were adorning my flank. I gulped and, stunned, quickly turned to look at the other. There was the exact same pattern. I backtrotted to the bed and nearly collapsed in shock. After years of waiting and hoping and praying for it to finally appear, I had finally earned my Cutie Mark during that magic show. Whereas I had thought my special talent was crafting delicate illusions, that was only part of it. Putting those magic tricks to work in a performance setting was my real special talent.

When the initial shock wore off, I hopped onto my hooves and squealed in joy. I positioned myself in front of the mirror in every possible angle to admire this new piece of me. It was a beautiful mark, more beautiful than I had ever thought it would be. And it was my very own. There was not a pony in the world who shared this mark with me. I was so happy that I didn’t even notice my father stagger into my room.

He made a hiccupping sound which caught my attention, and I proudly turned to him, my face beaming with excitement. I practically shouted at him for his opinion and if he thought Mama would be proud.

He just stared at me a second longer before taking another swig of alcohol and shuting the door behind him. I could hear the staggering clop of his hooves down the wooden stairs, ending only when he had resumed his vegetative state on the couch.

That night I cried for the first time since my mother died.

I began to appear on the streets more often after that, performing tried and true routines alongside new ideas. Some were flops, sure, and I sometimes left just as poor as I started. When a new routine did succeed, however, I was the talk of the town for the next week.

It was around the time I was sixteen that I was asked to do my first ‘real’ performance at the Canterlot Opera House as part of a show in which several other magicians and escape artists would be performing. I wasn’t promised a whole lot—a thousand bits for a simple routine—but it was more money than I had ever received from my street shows. I quickly took up the offer, and was so excited I got my friends tickets, including my father.

I practiced relentlessly for the show, forsaking school, sleep, and very nearly food for every spare moment I could afford. My father would watch me sometimes; more often than not, however, he was passed out on the sofa. I worked every single trick over, time after time after time, struggling to iron out the blemishes until it was something I felt confident I could show in front of hundreds of ponies at once.

All too soon, the night of the performance was on me. I spent the hours before the show nervously reviewing my tricks and illusions; I would have driven myself insane unless Hoofini himself came and started to talk to me. I was so awestruck to be talking with Equestria’s greatest escape artist that I could hardly find the words to speak. With a calm smile, Hoofini presented a rose from one of the sleeves of his jacket and asked if I would do a trick for him. I moved my head in something resembling a nod and stood there for several seconds like the star struck filly I was before I began to do something. I pulled off a simple firework trick where flares of light would spiral and burst into dazzling and interlocking colors. To my great surprise, Hoofini laughed heartily and stomped his hooves in applause. Then, he asked if I would like to go with him and get a bite to eat.

An hour later, I found myself disarmed by his friendliness and happily chatting about simple things with him. We talked about our routines, friends, and family. I talked about how I dreamt of being the greatest illusionist who ever lived; to visit city after city and dazzle the crowd with splendid tricks and shows. He, in turn, talked about something very surprising; the open road and travelling from place to place, never quite sure where you were headed next and what sort of reception you’d receive when you got there. He talked about the simple pleasures in life, from waking up in the morning and smelling the dew on the leaves to standing beneath the impressive monoliths of the Manehatten city skyline. I was absolutely enthralled, and greedily ate up every word he said.

Then the show itself began. Ponies went on in pairs or by themselves to do simple routines; I remember an especially striking trick where an earth pony traded places with an identical pegasus behind the scenes while the unicorn magician claimed to have put wings on a flightless pony. I watched from the sidelines as trick after trick continued to amaze the crowd until it was my turn to get on stage.

I almost didn’t go when they announced my name. My legs were trembling and I couldn’t see straight. Then I felt a foreleg wrap around my shoulders. I looked over to see Hoofini standing next to me. With a calm nod and a smile, he gave me a gentle push towards the stage. It was all I needed.

I bounded onto the stage and triggered a series of fireworks and flashes of light as I took the spotlight. I was immediately greeted with cheering and something else I had never heard from a crowd before: my name. The chant of “Trixie! Trixie!” absolutely stole my breath. But, lowering my hat until the brim barely covered my eyebrows, I put on my classic smile and began to get to work.

Lights, colors, sounds, pictures that jumped out at the crowd, even an impromptu comedy act acted out with two mannequins I pulled over from offstage. Each show left the audience dazzled. Once I had finished my grand finale in the shape of a flock of griffons chasing the facsimile of a dragon, I stood up on my hind legs and basked in the applause sent my way. It was then that I looked through the crowd. In short measure I spotted the seats I had picked out for my friends. They were all there, except for one empty chair, the ‘reserved’ tag still clinging to its backrest.

The blow hurt more than anything, but I weathered it long enough to maintain my smile as I stepped offstage.

Behind the curtain, Hoofini tried to congratulate me, but I simply walked past him, the tears beginning to stream down my face. I took a few minutes to myself in the bathroom to try and control my emotions, and in that process I knew what I was going to do. I left, collected my payment, and stormed home.

I didn’t wake my father until after I had packed my things. When I did, I slammed a bottle of whiskey so hard on his face that the glass shattered. Blood and alcohol went everywhere, but I didn’t stay long enough to see the full extent of the carnage. By the time my father was back on his hooves, I had slammed the door into the frame with such force that I could hear him struggling to open it as I pulled my cart full of belongings into the night.

A chill breeze washes over my body, and I realize that the fire has all but gone out again. This time I don’t bother trying to start it anew. I simply gather up my supplies and make my way to the wagon, being extra careful to lock and secure everything behind me. Once inside, I locate my sleeping bag and pillow, set my starry hat and cloak on their appropriate pegs, and settle down for a good night’s rest.

Even then, though, I see the next ten years of my life go by. Wandering the cold roads from Canterlot to Baltimare. Dipping back into my roots, performing on city corners for just enough money to survive. Struggling to recover after I was mugged… again. Through all this, my resentment of my father grew, and I only became more and more sour as the days wore on. When I got my first freelance show, I began to call myself the Great and Powerful Trixie. For what reason, I don’t know, but it stuck as a stage name from then on. Perhaps I chose it to spite my father, who in his drunken stupor never encouraged me to succeed, never saw any real value in what I saw in myself. What Hoofini saw in me.

Months turned to years. As I became more and more successful as the Great and Powerful Trixie and my wealth accumulated, I lost touch of who I really was—who I used to be. My friends—Celestia, I can’t even remember their names now—all lost touch with me. I became bitter and haughty, feeding the Great and Powerful Trixie that I was not. Despite this, I was successful; I had money, I had a new wagon that I could set up as a stage anywhere at any time, and I was famous.

Well, notorious might be a better word, but when I came to town, ponies showed up to see me perform.

I thought my life was all planned out before me, and that I would be doing shows across the country for the rest of my days. Well, until I became too old to pull my wagon around, at which point I would cling onto existence until my money ran out, move onto the streets, and ultimately wither away until I died. Cynical as it was, that was how I thought back then. And even though I wasn’t okay with that down inside, the Great and Powerful Trixie told me that I was and begrudgingly accepted it.

Then I went to Ponyville.

It was supposed to be a simple act on a backwater town on my way to Canterlot to scrounge up a few spare bits to renew another week’s continued existence. ‘Easy as pie’ was the thought I had in my head, if I recall correctly. It wouldn’t be any different than my other tours.

I don’t know what got into me when ponies began to boo my routine. I dealt with neighsayers and ponies who didn’t like my acts before, but this time I felt compelled to challenge them. I thought a simple story about how I defeated an Ursa Major would be enough to shut them up. It was a complete fabrication, true, but I didn’t expect to have to defend it. Then the ponies in the crowd began to go onstage and try to show me up. I handedly turned their tricks against them, feeling more and more powerful as I did so. I sent them all scurrying away in shame.

Some voice called out to me at that point. It said that what I was doing wasn’t show business. That wasn’t a simple act. It was me being cruel to feed my own ego—the ego that the Great and Powerful Trixie had created.

I mercilessly crushed it beneath my hoof.

Only when an actual Ursa Minor attacked the town and I was powerless to stop it did my world seem to break down around me. I fled, tail between my legs, and watched as my reputation fell to shambles with the cruel, cruel gossip of ponykind. Everywhere I went, I was driven out of town. Cursed. Mocked. Despised.

Each one cut another hole in the persona that was the Great and Powerful Trixie. Instead of learning from the experience, however, I filled with anger.

When I finally gathered enough money from working on a rock farm to start my routines again, I resupplied and bought a powerful and mystical amulet to try and show up Twilight Sparkle and her friends. This time I knew I couldn’t be beaten.

And I was right.

I ruined Ponyville with my magic. In my hatred, I terrorized the town and claimed it as my own personal playground. The Great and Powerful Trixie had spiraled out of control, becoming nothing more than a monster. A monster that wanted to prove that she was better than everypony else.

Deep down inside, there was a hurt filly calling out just to be appreciated.

My anger and lust for power made me blind. Before I could do any actual harm to the innocents of Ponyville, however, Twilight and her friends stepped up once again. Not to shame and humble me like last time, however. This time they helped me. They tricked me into removing the Alicorn Amulet, and with it gone, I felt that somehow a bit of the façade of the Great and Powerful Trixie left as well. I was no longer a glory hound performing for my own personal gain. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I should perform because that was what I loved doing.

I hadn’t paid much attention to my Cutie Mark when I was the self-obsessed Trixie. When the veil was lifted from my eyes, I looked at it and studied its shapes and curves for the first time in a long time.

I almost wept at how far I had strayed from the little filly who had performed her first show on a wooden crate at a street corner.

I lie on the floor of my wagon in the sleeping bed and follow the grains of wood in the ceiling over my head as I think just how wonderful my life has been since Twilight brought me back to who I was. Before, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the world around me. I just wanted to get from Point A to Point B and hopefully make a little money in the process.

Now, I appreciate the world for what it truly is.

My shows no longer are designed simply to fuel my own ego. I realize now that they should be less about me and more about the audience I’m trying to entertain. While I still play in large public buildings for fairly sizeable payments, sometimes I simply pull over on a roadside or a street corner and give everypony a free show. After all, it’s the least I can do for them to try and brighten their day.

Perhaps that’s why I like travelling so much. I can see so many new places and reach so many different ponies, even if just for a few hours at a time. Plus, the long roads between cities offer me plenty of time to think back on my life and share thoughts with the patient world around me. I finally understand what it is that Hoofini loved about the open road.

It brings a certain peace to my troubled heart.

As I can feel the strings of sleep pull my eyelids together, I give one last glance over my life. Even though my mother was stolen from me too young; even though my father was, and still is, a worthless alcoholic living somewhere in the streets of Canterlot; even though I nearly ruined my life feeding an alter-ego of whom I was not, I have come to realize just how much I enjoy being who I am. Not some Great and Powerful magician. I am Trixie. Trixie Lulamoon. And I love performing for ponies.

Nopony chose this life for me. I chose this life for me.