> A Blueberry and Her Greenery
>  by Gentian
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> 1 - Introductions
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Magus of the road. The Wandering Sorceress. The Great and Powerful. That's what they once called her, in her glory days. She traveled where she chose, when she chose, picking directions with the care-free abandon of a stick dropped at forks in the road. Sometimes, she'd sleep until noon, snuggling in the softness of her blankets. Other times, she'd rise before dawn, to watch in appropriate awe as the princesses set the moon and sun in motion.

She went where whim and fortune took her, savoring her freedom. It didn't matter where that was; no sooner was she spotted trundling down the road, than everypony would rush out to meet her. Fillies and colts would swarm her wagon, and force her to stop. Not that she minded, oh no; she loved it! The attention, and wonder on their own were enough to make her smile, and their bright, adoring faces, excitedly clip-clopping around and around her wagon also gave her ample opportunity to show off. 

The adult ponies would hang back a bit, but her name was on their lips too. And what a name! Trixie Lulamoon! Redolent of grace, power, and skill, as she would often tell them. They all wanted her attention, and what fun she had giving it to them! On her terms, of course, and in her fame she could dictate those exactly: warm receptions, responsive audiences, and all the status and privilege that comes with celebrity. Her thirst for recognition was easy to slake in those days.

In her glory days, but no longer.

It's a truism that “all things change,” and she can't help her vision blurring, or pace slowing as she remembers the day those particular things did. She won't cry, though. She won't let herself, though the memories sting her time and again like wasps. She is a proud pony, and holds herself to the highest standards.

She still goes where she wants, when she wants. Mostly. She avoids Ponyville these days. Not that she would deign to set hoof in that backwater, anyway! Or so she tells herself. Her reputation still precedes her, but unfortunately, it's not the reputation she wants. No more being met on the road and given a hero's escort to town. No more swelling crowds or cheering fans. And, since it happened, barely a night goes by in which she isn't jerked to panicked wakefulness by the nightmares.

She deserves it. More importantly, she believes she deserves it. She is a proud pony, not a vindictive, or foolish one, and not, despite what many would say, a narcissist. She knows what she has done, and her regret fills her, haunts her, and at times overwhelms her, though that last happens rarely anymore. She is a proud pony, and while she, with a simple spell every unicorn learns in their youth, could banish the nightmares, she does not. She is a proud pony, and her high standards demand she bears this crux for as long as fate decrees she must.

Pride gives her the strength to persevere, but does not numb her pain. Her tears rise, and though she does not let them fall, they make it difficult to pick her way along the rocky path. She stops and takes in the valley spread out before her, glowing reddish in the low sun. Vagabonding definitely has its perks. Experience tells her this isn't the best place to camp, but the princesses will take the light soon, and it is a wonderful place from which to enjoy the transition. She needs that pick-me-up.

Her horn glows, and the harness drops. She wedges the wheels of her wagon, and settles against it with a drink in her hoof, tired, and relaxed in the cool evening air. The sky is a pink-purple now, and the stars just beginning to twinkle in to being when the sun suddenly accelerates below the mountains. A moment later the moon rises. A smile spreads across her pale blue face, filled with happiness at this display of incredible magic.

“They do that so well,” she sighs to herself. “The Princesses' really are fantastic.” They're probably also among the only beings in Equestria she both admires and respects. Some ponies would say that makes her arrogant. To which accusation her retort would be to enquire how she could be held responsible for the fact that they're the only beings actually worthy of her admiration and respect . As if the hoi palloi is in any position to judge. 

A sigh, and a cool sip of cider under the stars brings consolation. The canaille are fickle, and wouldn't know art or showponyship if it bit them on the flank! She is great! She is powerful! Just because her soi-disant peers have their snouts up their own nethers doesn't mean a thing!

She is a proud pony, and won't give up. Her will is as hard as her magic is potent. She is adamas: untamable, and won't let herself be brought low by their calumny. She'll keep trying. One day, they'll eat their words, and call her great and powerful again!

One day.


_____________________________________


He wanders alone through the forest. To say he's tired and hungry would be a comical understatement, if the situation weren't so dire. He is lost in the most complete sense of the word. He doesn't know where he is, or where to go; he doesn't know how he got here, or how to get back. Instead, he picks his way among the giant trees, and tangled roots with a stick in his hands and dirty, torn clothes on his back. What else does one do upon awakening with no memory from a fugue in the forest primeval?

He doesn't know how long he's been here; the sun, glimpsed through gaps between branches, and the occasional clearing, will change from a slow meander across the sky, to a lightning fast dash in the blink of an eye. What good is counting days when the days themselves aren't days as you know them? How can one count at all, as hunger, thirst, fatigue and fear erode one's mind?

He doesn't, at this point, even know who he is. What he does know, or at least, strongly suspects, is that rain is imminent. The clouds - some of them even have spikes! - have been gathering all day, and now form a fearsome black thunderhead. It's lop-sided anvil top stretches high over his head, telling him the wind is pushing it his way.

He's torn on this; drinking from water trapped in rocks, and dew sopped up with his shirt is far from appetizing, but this sky looks like the kind to bring far more than just rain. He considers his options as the clouds roll closer, but his mouth feels cottony, his lips have chapped, and ultimately, dangerous or not, he needs the water. 

“I'll just have to lay out with my mouth open” he decides, stepping into a clearing. Cautiously, he pokes in the grass to make sure there's nothing else there, and sits down to wait. Quite suddenly, hailstones begin to fall. He makes a dash for the tree-line, stumbling over the uneven terrain.

Before he can rise again, the hail has stopped. Microbursts gust from the sky flattening the grass, and shaking whole trees. The clouds have turned a sickly green, and though it grows darker by the moment, he can see they're undulating like water. This is going to be much worse than a rainshower, he thinks.

“Shelter, shelter, shelter.” his words are lost as a deluge begins. Rain and hail pound the trees, and bounce off the ground around him. In an instant he is soaked to the bone. Frantically he looks around as the hailstones grow larger.

CRACKTAO!!!

Lightning turns a nearby tree to splinters. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He leaps to his feet and sprints as best he can to the middle of the field, assuming a squatting position, with his arms wrapped around his knees. He knows that's what you're supposed to do, but the weather gets worse and worse; the terrible wind blowing both rain and hail in horizontal sheets. 

There! Is that a cave? His vision is obscured, but it sure looks like it. He sprints again, right for it, but stops just outside, back hunched against the maelstrom. What if something's in there? His memory is still lost, but so many movies, books, and games have given him a learned, nigh instinctual caution for the dark places of the world which transcends mere memory.

He grunts as a a chunk of ice hits him in the back. That one was big enough to hurt!

“Fuck!” he says again, and rushes inside.
> 2 – Agony of Light
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

From inside the cave, he stares out. Its walls protect him from the hail, and wind, but rain pours through fissures in the ceiling, and blows intermittently in from the entrance. The broken stone curves overhead, too low to permit him to stand, so he squats amidst the mud and tries to think. Aren't caves a bad place to be in thunderstorms? Something about lightning leaping the gaps? He isn't sure. 

Beyond the mouth, the storm howls its fury, and lashes out with searing tongues of incandescent plasma. He turns his head back to the cave, and tries too see beyond the lingering afterimages. It's narrow, but extends back to unseen depths like the throat of some mineral colossus. He could go deeper, but hesitates; that would save him from the lightning, and be drier too, but if there is anything else in here, it'd be unwise to provoke it by getting closer.

Another bolt lands nearby, its strobe invading the dark recesses of the cave. 

A bit, just a little bit, reflects back. 

Instantly, he freezes, peering intently in the blackness. Whatever he saw, is gone, lost in the deep gloom left in light's sudden absence. He waits, motionless as his sight gradually returns, and there, on the very edge of the darkness: a jewel.

“No way.” He whispers despite himself.

Slowly, he creeps toward it, his eyes darting between the unseen back of the cave, and the glimmering, petrified spark. As he gets closer his eyes resolve it more clearly: thumb-sized; a deep, translucent red; expertly cut and polished, and sitting right in the middle of the damp stone.

He holds it up, and wipes away the rain drops, marveling at the way its facets snare and set to dancing even the wan light bleeding in from the mouth.

Lightning strikes, and his jaw drops. There's another one, just a bit further in. Pale green, equally flawless, and nearly as big. And there, a deep blue glint in the shadows, and there, and there... Without thinking he stuffs them in to his pockets, one after the other, each resting a step or two beyond the one before.

Another bolt of lightning lands. It doesn't seem so close. In fact, he didn't even hear it; only its attenuated flash told him it had struck at all. He turns back toward the mouth of the cave, now surprisingly distant: a dull gray splotch surrounded by nothingness. He looks forward: blackness. Not merely the absence of light, but a darkness so complete it seems material. The air is different too, not the fresh rainy-ozone of a thunderstorm, but still, and dusty; the colossus' respiration.

Yet the jewels continue on; little sparks of light laying one after the other. A trail of winking eyes beckoning him to follow. To go deeper.

Suddenly an image springs to his mind. A memory? On a boat with his grandfather, throwing ladles of blood and rotten meat in the ocean. Each time they came to do it, it was always in the same place among the islands. His grandfather explaining that by making the fish accustomed to feedings, they would always return, and he would have an easy place to catch dinner.

The fish, being pulled from the sea, their bellies opened, and bowels swiftly torn out, then hurled back to lure more. 

A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature sends involuntary shudders up and down his spine. He takes a step backward, then another, silently cursing as his feet scuff the living rock.

A noise reaches out from the shadows: a scratching, like fingernails on stone, synchronized with his steps, and so very, very faint he can't be sure he hears it at all. Is it just his imagination? He doesn't know, neither does he care. Something's there. He doesn't need to hear it, he can feel it; the abyss is staring back.

A new odor reaches him: rotting meat and unwashed fur. His eyes catch the faintest hint of movement: black shadows hiding blacker shapes. Fear and dread surge over him like a wave. The urge to run is all-consuming.

GET OUT NOW!

The gems slip from his fingers and tinkle off the cave's floor as he turns. The scratching sound rises over them, louder and closer than before: not fingernails, he realizes. Claws, scrabbling for purchase. Terror takes him, and he breaks in to a full, panic-fueled sprint.

One stride.

Adrenaline cuts through the mental fog of hunger and fatigue like a chemical razor. What was I thinking?! How could I have fallen for such an obvious trap?!

Two.

The mouth of the cave captures his sight, and his mind. Suddenly, its faint glow seems to shine in incredible radiance, taking on all the biblical connotations he had ever heard. The light, the blessed sanctuary of light! He must reach it!

Three.

A silent scream is knocked from his lungs as something hits him from behind. He sprawls over the hard, uneven floor, trying desperately to recover his footing. Great, clawed arms covered in filthy, knotted fur throw him back down. He kicks out wildly; blind, and unable to breathe, but it's no use.  Unseen, reeking bodies press him to the rock and quickly bind him in coarse rope. Something wet, clingy and noxious is forced over his head.

Laughter like nothing from a human throat echoes through the cave, and then, mercifully: oblivion.
> 3 - Histrionics
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Under the vast, blue skies of Equestria lies a thick, green wood. It's one of the great forests of Equestria, though not, by size alone, the greatest. It's divided in to northern and southern halves by a river flowing through its center, which then joins with another at its western edge, and runs all the way to the distant sea. On its northern border, like a crown, rests a minor mountain range. It continues northward in fits and starts, extending all the way to the greatest, and most important mountain of all: Canterlot.

If instead we follow its peaks to the southeast, they grow gradually smaller, shrinking to low, rocky hills with dry slopes littered in scree and talus. Trees grow here too, though they're not part of the great wood. Their roots bore deeply through the dry dirt and stone to drink directly from the water table. They're mostly aspen, and line the roads and passes in shining gold every autumn, but now it's late spring, and their leaves are brilliant green.

Down just one of these roads, more a path, really, rolls a wagon, swathed in emerald light. The Magus of the Road, Trixie, the Great, and Powerful, stands on it's hoofboard giddy with anticipation. Not much farther now: Diamond Dogs! They're stinky, sure, but loaded with jewels, and very easy to impress. That's a good thing too, because she needs every bit she can squeeze out of the few audiences isolated enough to still see her as she deserves to be seen: with awe.

She strains her magic to keep the wheels turning. It's hard, yes, but not too hard; she is the Great and Powerful Trixie, after all. What's important, is that cruising in to a show on a cart that pulls itself is impressive, even to other ponies. As for the Diamond Dogs? She giggles to herself imagining their reactions.

The blue sky breaks between the last few trunks as the forest's edge approaches; she won't have to imagine for long. With practiced ease she dons a haughty expression, her nose up, a sly smile on her lips, and simply oozing arrogance. Her pointed hat is cocked just so, and a gentle touch of magic sets her starry cape billowing behind her in a non-existent wind.

The wagon sways gently as it carries her through the tree line.

Showtime!

“Come one! Come all! See the amaaaaaaazing feats of magic that can only be performed by the most  amaaaaaaazing unicorn in all Equestria!”

Memories rise unbidden: a small town, not too far away, an amulet, the violet eyes of another unicorn... But her expression never wavers, neither does her voice betray her thoughts; her smile even grows. As powerful as she is, magic isn't the only great thing about her!

“See the dextrous manipulation of reality itself!” They definitely see her; diamond pups begin to yip and jump excitedly, some rush into the wide mouth of their cave, others run to meet her, and follow alongside as her vardo bears her onward.

“Trixie! Trixie! Trixie's here!” Their small voices are music to her ears; this is what it's all about! She looks down her snout at them, then flashes a sudden radiant smile.

“Be AWED with power you never knew existed! Power you never knew COULD exist!” More Diamond Dogs emerge from the cave, their ears perked, and tails wagging. Not just the pups either; full-grown dogs run around her wagon, their giant tongues lolling in naked excitement. Only Diamond Dogs, she thinks to herself, taking care not to hit any with the wagon.

“For while The Great and Powerful Trixie has graced your home with her presence befooore...” Her voice climbs along with her snout “...that was some. Time. Ago.” With a smirk she lets the wagon roll to a gentle stop.

“Gather 'round, and see The Great and Powerful Trixie as you've never seen her before!” In one fluid motion she whips her cloak in a fluttering circle, throws it back, and leaps to her vardo's roof, stealthily triggering a switch as she goes.

“Blessed with talent beyond any other unicorn! Trained by her Royal Highness Princess Celestia herself! Easy victor of not just one, but too many duels to count with Princess...” Was that tone a bit too mocking? “...Twilight Sparkle!”

Unwelcome memories spring to her mind; she effortlessly squashes them back down.

“Conqueror and ruler of Ponyville...until I got bored and left! The one! The only! The Great and Powerful Trrrrrixie!”

Now, she thinks, both magic and muscle sending her springing into the air. Soaring higher than any mere jump, she watches as hidden, ports slide back sending mechanical trumpets blaring and cannons launching sparks and confetti over her audience.

Perfect timing, of course, she silently congratulates herself. Smoke gushes from under her wagon and a stage juts forth. She magically slows her descent to a gentle glide, and touches down with an ostentatious bow just as the smoke clears, to a cacophony of wild howls and tails drumming the ground.

Ah, Diamond Dogs, she thinks, already in the frog of my hoof! With a perfect smile on her gorgeous face, and a flashy wave of her forelegs, a wand appears in hoof, as if from nothing. She brandishes it with dramatic flourish raising it high, and sweeping the crowd, barely stifling a giggle as their heads follow its movement. Every last one of them.

Sweet Celestia! I've gotta play that off!

“Ha, ha haaaa...” she says in gradually rising pitch, letting her voice take on a vaguely sinister note at the end.

Such silly creatures! It's not what I planned, but if you like the stick, I'll give you the stick!

“Behold! An artifact from the other side. Unknown to Gryphons!”

What should I call this thing?

“Unknown to 'Taurs!”

Think fast, Trixie!

“Unknown to the Dragons, and you mighty Diamond Dogs!”

Oh, I know! What was that thing called?

“Unknown to all but the wisest and greatest of ponies, and only spoken of in frightened whispers!” 

Lives in a city under the sea, part pony, part octopus, little bat-wings? That's it!

“Pulled to this world by none other than Starswirl the Bearded himself! Used to work wonders both incredible and terrible, then banished beyond the sea by Princess Celestia because even SHE feared its power! Tremble, for you are in the presence of the dreaded Wand of Colthulhu!”

They all actually gasped. Perfect!

“But I, the Great and Powerful Trixie, could not be denied! I, through wit and sorcery unmatched, stole this artifact from the depths of Tartarus itself! I, and I alone know the secret to its use!” The Diamond Dogs stand transfixed by the wand, ears pressed back, eyes wide, and fearful. 

“But, you have no-thing to fear! I, the Great and Wonderful Trixie am not cruel!”

Memories.

Not now!

“I, The Great and Powerful Trixie, will protect you from whatever terrors it holds! I, the Great and Selfless Trixie, in my generosity, would share the marvels of this ancient relic with you! Watch, and be amazed!”

She tosses the wand underhoofedly in the air, and catches it in her pink aura, holding it suspended just over their heads.

“Not e-ven The Great and Powerful Trixie can use it in hoof. Its magic is too dangerous! One of Starswirl's apprentices tried... and was last seen being dragged away by tentacled horrors! Things...” she eyes the mass of slack-jawed dogs ominously “...from beyond the veil of worlds!

I see them!” The sudden shout draws a jump from the crowd. “Insanity given form! Crouching in the Warp! Rrrrrravenous! They're watching you! Steel yourselves, for The Great and Powerful Trixie will pull back the aetheral curtain, and show you a glimpse...” She lets the last word linger in the air “but only a glimpse, lest you go MAD!”

A murmur passes through the crowd: palpable tension. Perfect!

The wand begins to sway and dip in her brightening aura. A touch of ventriloquism magic calls a noise, faint and buzzing. It seems to come from the wand, and swiftly grows to shrill, mindless screams.

“Can you hear them? The mad shrieks of Tartarus!” More magic!

Thin wisps of vapor pour from the tip of her wand, and thicken to a dark, bulbous cloud. From the lobes and pillows of smoke she sculpts a face, twisted and rotten, then lets it melt away. Sharp gasps leap gratifyingly from her audience's throats.

“Can you see? The soul-devouring nightmares of the Immaterium!” More magic!

Another one, larger and more monstrous than the last. She looks around. They're all focused on the show above them. A few of the pups are even hiding their eyes behind their paws, or cowering against their parents.

A new shape rises, swift and terrible, like a shark attacking from below. It's toothy maw swallows the monstrous face, then leers at the crowd.

More gasps, and even a whimper or two. Not just from the pups, either, she notes with satisfaction.

Ha! Here we go!

She makes the screams louder, and lets her magical aura sputter and spark, as the face grows. Expertly she adds new voices, twisting them, and weaving them among the others in to a hideous acapella. With a momentary, and well-hidden burst of telekinesis, small waves of stones come tumbling down the mountain side.

Some of the Dogs turn to look, fear worn openly on their dirty faces. The scattered whimpers change to full whines. More magic!

“Pathetic creatures!” The dogs leap at the face's booming, malevolent voice. “You dare summon me? You can't hold me, I'll suck the marrow from your shattered bones and grind your souls to ashes!” She sends some of the smoke snaking down in tendrils to twist and grasp over the Diamond Dog's cringing heads.

Barely good enough for the ponies, she thinks, but more than good enough for these mutts. Some of the pups break from the crowd and flee to the cave. 

Looks like it's time to save the day!

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” Trixie's bold, feminine laugh rings out, high, and clear as the blue sky. The fleeing dogs stop in their tracks at its magically amplified tone, turning their heads uncertainly between Trixie and the apparition. “I, the Great and Powerful Trixie will not allow you to harm anything! You are at my command! Come to heel, monster! ” 

With a deafening roar, she makes the phantom launch its tendrils at her, and with a blast of fiery red, and perfectly harmless light from her horn, knocks it backward, shrieking. 

“Silence, beast! Go back to the Chaos from which you came!” Her horn glows even brighter: a pink bonfire blazing from her forehead. “Begone!” The face contorts in agony, keening as it's absorbed back into the stick.

The wand drops, and the Diamond Dogs flee from where it lands, forming a ragged circle of gaping mouths, shifting eyes, and awkward, hesitantly wagging tails. Trixie smiles, allowing herself to seem just a little bit flustered. They look back and forth from the wand to her, their semblant savior, and erupt in cheers.
> 4 – Savoir Faire a la Trixie
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

From every throat pour sounds of praise and gratitude. Trixie, The Great and Powerful stands on stage, her fore hooves raised, basking in the sun high above, and the adoration close below. At that moment, she wouldn't be able to say which is warmer. Her breath is deep, and her smile broad, and genuine.

That was a good show!

With a flourish of her foreleg she throws herself in to her flashiest bow: balanced on one hind leg, with a fore hoof held to her waist, her other limbs thrust out behind her. She stands, flipping her stark white mane back over her shoulder, and hops down from the stage.

Suddenly, a pin-drop would seem deafening, but her stride stays smooth, and her hips sway as she strolls nonchalantly toward the wand, laying quietly in the dirt. The surrounding Diamond Dogs part like water at her approach. 

“Not e-ven the Empyrean's horrors can best the Great and Powerful Tri-XIE.” She emphasizes that last sound, savoring the taste of her own name on her tongue. “But really...” her horn glows and in a pink flash, the wand leaps to her cloak-pocket. Her audience leaps too. “...was there ever any doubt?” 

With another smirk, and shake of her head, she saunters back to stage, obviously relishing the feeling of so many eyes on her flanks. With her fore hooves, she pulls herself back up, and sits with her hind legs crossed at their cannons, letting them dangle languidly off the edge. 

Time for the goodies!

“Now then, The Great and Powerful Trixie, quondam royal student, triumphant in countless duels and contests of magic, and fearless, even in the face of sanity-shattering monsters, has juuuussssttt...” raising her voice and nose, smiling smugly, holding that last syllable, drawing it out, then quickly: “...saved your bacon.”  

What a phrase, she thinks. Who would have thought something with such je ne sais quoi could come from the Gryphons? At her words, a murmur passes through the crowd, and a trio of dogs break from the group, sprinting into the gloom of the cave's broad, bone-strewn mouth. She pretends not to notice.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie will accept your adulation...” a brief pause, a faint smile “...now.” As one they rush to her hooves, yipping, cheering, and whining. I hope they don't piddle this time, she thinks, closing her eyes, and raising her perfect face to the warm disc of the sun.

A warmth swells in her chest as the sounds, and more importantly the feelings of veneration wash over her. With her eyes closed, she lets them carry her to her own little world: a world of contentment, a world where everyone loves her. She smiles more broadly and looks toward the cave, being careful to allow only the briefest of glances to fall on her worshipers.

They should be returning soon! Last time they presented a basket full of glittering gems; I wonder what it'll be today? Two of the sprinters emerge. Ah, there they are! They're empty-handed, she notes with an invisible frown. Behind them: a movement in the gloom. That must be number three!

“…”

What under Celestia's sun is that?!

______________________________


He stands amid the stones and rubble of the cave, breathing in ragged grunts as he beats his chain with a pick. It falls again, and again; flakes of stone flying from his makeshift anvil, but the links themselves refuse to burst.  

They're gone! At long last, they're gone! Those things haven't given him a moment of peace since they bound him in iron. Everywhere in the foul caves they followed. driving him to mine their gems, and push their carts by the faint light of the stone. Even in the dark caves, the ones with no crystals to light the way, their harsh voices yipped and cackled at him from the blackness.

Then, moments ago, a great cry echoed  through the caverns, cascading from throat to throat down the endless tunnels, and in an instant, his captors forgot all about him. They ran away, to a head,  practically stampeding over one another in their excitement. He stood dumbly in his pain, and exhaustion, watching them go. Then, he remembered.

Not everything. He still doesn't know who he is, where he is, or how he arrived. But he remembers the sky. He remembers the way it boomed and wept when it drove him to this waking nightmare. He remembers what it looked like before the storm: shining, blue, and beautiful. He hasn't seen the sky since his agony began, and now he desperately wants what he never really missed before: to see the sky again.

So he raises his pick, and brings it down with all his might. Over, and over, though his calluses tear, and his blisters weep. Though his bones jar and his ears ring, over and over, until the stone crumbles. The stone, but not the chain. Tears of frustrated rage fill his eyes, but what's this? A link has bowed! A new-found strength courses through his veins, and he raises his pick again. 

“...too much to carry! Where slave at?”

They're coming back! To his horror, the big, blue hunchbacked one skids around the corner at a full sprint. Where he is the other two are never far behind. It slows momentarily, sniffing the air, then makes a bee-line right for him. 

No! Fuck! I'm so close!

They're on him in an instant; The little one grabs his chain while the big one shoves something over his shoulders. It's wooden, and heavy, with baskets dangling from the sides. They hurriedly stuff one of the baskets with gems, and the other with bottles taken from a padded bag. The one holding his chain jerks, and he stumbles, nearly falling.

“No, no no!” Screeches the mid-sized one. “Don't pull so hard! If he falls the bottles'll break!” The little one's eyes grow almost as big as his body, and he immediately lets the chain go slack. The big one roughly grabs a handful of his shirt, and shoves him quickly, but carefully down the tunnel.

______________________________ 


Something has emerged from the cave. It's something Trixie has never seen before, and that fact alone is enough to hold her riveted. Not that she lets it show, of course. Trixie, The Great and Powerful is an expert showpony, and can don or doff her emotions with the skilled ease of a fashionista at her wardrobe.

With expertly worn indifference she watches it approach, pushed and poked along by...Fido, is his name? The biggest of the Diamond Dogs, whatever his name is. Rover and Spot elbow their way through the crowd and genuflect at her hooves. Their tails are stiff, just the clubbed ends lightly beating the ground; they're excited, but trying to be subtle about it. She pays them no mind.

What is that?

“Oh, Trixie...” Rover begins.

Fuck that! “Ahem!” He pauses and sneaks a questioning glance up at her, then doubles down, his nose to the dirt.

“Oh Great and Poooowerful Trixie!”

“You may continue.”

“Thank you for saving us! Thank you, thank you!”

“Look! Look!” Spot, adds. “Our servant brings you treats: gems, cider, and even Gryphon ale too!”

So it's their servant? Why anything would serve Diamond Dogs, she laments, is beyond even the Great and Powerful Trixie's ken. Maybe it's not worth my attention after all.

It's getting closer now, picking its way around the litter as slowly as Fido will let it, obviously having trouble seeing in the light. Its back is bent under its burden, and wait a moment! What's that on its limbs? Chains?

The warm, bouyant feeling in her chest suddenly chills, and sinks to the pit of her stomach. 

Chains.

Unwelcome memories rise, they always do, but never so soon after a show. Memories of an amulet, and its incredible power coursing through her veins. Flowing from an even more incredible cruelty mired in her heart. Watching through her own eyes, yet somehow not really comprehending as she did things. Things she still wouldn't believe she could have done, if she hadn't been forced to watch them herself, an outsider within her own mind.

But I did, I did, oh, those poor ponies! And Twilight...No!

No! No! No! No! No!

…...

In the privacy of her own mind, Trixie smiles as she slams the door of her memory palace. Her will is triumphant; the specters of her past have been quelled; squashed back to the oubliette where she keeps what she doesn't want to remember, but won't allow herself to forget. While under the sun, and over the Diamond Dogs, not a strand of her snowy mane has come out of place.

Damn, I'm awesome.

______________________________ 


Sunlight! Piercing his closed eyes and setting them sweetly afire! It's touch blinds him, but he can't stop; the beast won't let him. It forces him on even as he stumbles over obstacles he can't see. Finally, squinting through the blur of aching, watery eyes, he can make out a crowd of brutes clustered around a stage.

There seems to be a blue pony sitting on it. A blue pony, with a white mane, wearing a robe and wizard hat.

Maybe I have been in the dark too long.

______________________________ 


It doesn't look like an animal, but what a sight it is: walking on two legs, covered in dirty, tattered cloth, sporting a mane, of sorts, but no coat, and struggling under the weight of a well-laden yoke. As soon as it arrives, the dogs push it to the ground, and laugh. Trixie isn't laughing. Neither is it. Its face is so oddly flat, but even though its eyes are small, and its ears stuck in place, she can read it as clearly as any pony's: exhaustion, frustration, fear, comprehension. This thing, whatever it is, understands its situation; it is no thoughtless beast.

“Why would I want your prisoner?” Blase, but not overly so.

“No, Great and Powerful one, our servant only brings treats!”

“Look, look!” says Spot, pointing to the baskets. “Sparkly jewels!” Rover holds up the bottles.

“Gryphon Ale! Apple Cider! Even Changeling Nectar! All for you, Great and Powerful Trixie!”

Wow! How did Diamond Dogs get luxuries like these? They're really going all out this time; the show must have been even better than I thought.

Memories. A stab of conscious. Damn it. Trixie shifts her eyes from the baskets, to the creature. It's looking at her, but won't hold her gaze.

What's your story? She's heard tales of the Dogs baiting creatures and capturing them. They use them for labor, if they're strong enough, and eventually, when they're not, food. But as horrible as that is, it's always been animals, she's never even heard rumors of them capturing sapients. But the chains...

I must do something, she thinks, but what? Hard experience has taught her time and again that reckless action is trouble. She must know more before she acts.

“Why does your servant need chains? His pay is his chain, is it not?”

“He's a thief!” Shouts Rover.

“Come to side cave in forest, steal Diamond Dog treasure.” The little one nods. 

So that's it? He's a thief? But even if he is, does he deserve what they have in store for him? Even worse, what if he isn't? I need to know more, and honey catches more flies than vinegar.

“Well, then, congratulations on capturing a thief! The Great and Powerful Trixie applauds your prowess!” 

“Oh, thank you, Great and Powerful One!” gushes Spot, his tail wagging furiously “His pockets bulged when we found him!”

“Yes, yes, they were so fat we almost couldn't net him!”

“Pssha! Exaggeration, I'm sure!” She sardonically replies.

“Yeah,” grumbles Fido “he didn't even get them all. We laid out too many jewels in the bait line.” Her heart sinks; they did lure him. She knows what she has to do now.

______________________________ 


On hands, and knees in the dust, he listens. They're all talking about him; knuckle-walking dog-things conversing with a blueberry wizard pony. He'd laugh at the absurdity if he could, but he can't.

So, this is all for the blueberry, he thinks. I wonder who she is. Why does she – not human, but clearly female – keep looking at me? Not like the others do; they leer, and scowl, but in her eyes...is that remorse? Pity? Only a split second, then it's gone; the set of her face, the carriage of her body, everything about her exuding power and confidence.

The dog-things extol their gifts, and she actually looks somewhat impressed. Her eyes meet his, and he quickly looks down.

If she's as important as she seems, I'd better not provoke her. She asks about him again. They say he's a thief! Anger overcomes his fear; he's just about to say something when the big dumb(er) one drops the truth. 

They wince and look at him, tails tucked, no longer wagging. He stands there with a confused scowl on his face, not seeming to realize what he just said. But the blueberry does, and she doesn't seem happy.

“Well, The Great and Powerful Trixie has need of a new servant.”

What? Does she mean me?

“She will graciously relieve you of this burden.

______________________________ 

“But Great and Powerful One, he's not a treat, he's a thief!”

“What Trixie wants, Trixie gets...” she scowls, letting an edge creep in to her voice. Especially from Diamond Dogs. “...and Trixie. Wants. Him.”

“But...but...” Rover seems to wilt beneath her gaze, his ears laying further back, and his tail tucking more and more deeply at every stuttering word. “If you take him, maybe he tries to steal from you! Great and Powerful Trixie might get angry at us!” Trixie only laughs, a silver melody lilting on the breeze.

“If it steals from Trixie, it will be punished. The Great and Magnanimous Trixie would not hold you responsible.”

“But...but...” stammers the dog.

“BUT!” Her voice hardens. “The Great and Powerful Trixie will get angry...” they whimper at this “...if you deny her! The Great and Famous Trixie will tell all she meets 'Diamond Dogs have no gratitude! I saved their town from unspeakable terrors, yet they refused my simple request!' Who will trade with you then?” The dogs look back and forth at each other, indecision crumpling their jutting brows.

“Ok” Spot relents.

“No!” Shouts Fido “He mine!”

“But Trixie saved us!” Spot growls. Rover jumps between them.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie wants the thing, so give it to her! But we keep the jewels!” Fido thinks a moment. It looks painful for him.

“And drinks” he says finally.

No. Hell no. Not only that, but hell fuck no!

“Fine!” Trixies horn flares in searing pink light, and the wand jumps from her pocket to the sand. “Maybe I should leave that here?” She says with a malicious smirk. “Maybe you can find a way to protect yourselves from whatever comes out of it next?” Their eyes widen, and tails droop. “Or maybe you can't?

I, The Great and Powerful Trixie, will have it all, or you will have this...” she gestures pointedly with her hoof, “...and all that comes with it!” A subtle touch of her magic, and a faint wailing fills the air. Most of the Dogs flee to the cave, crying and yelping in panic as thin trails of smoke begin to leak from the tip. She locks eyes with Rover, head high, and cocks an eyebrow. He grimaces, staring at the nascent cloud.

“It's all yours, Great and Powerful One” He whispers, looking at the ground. “Just take away magic stick.”

Especially from Diamond Dogs!

In an instant the wailing stops and the smoke clears. The wand flies back to her hoof, and she tucks it safely into her pocket, regarding her new help.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes, Great and Powerful Trixie.” That brought a smile to her lips.

Well, he picked up my name, and the proper way to say it! I like him already. “Good, come with me if you want to live. And bring the baskets.”
> 5 – Magical Realm
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Can you speak?”

He looks up from the dirt and rubble, squinting at the halo of sunlight shining around her head.

They called her Trixie, but something else too. Was it a title? Her demeanor says confidence, and the way those things treated her, says status; a noble?

“Yes, Great, and Powerful Trixie.” A smile plays across her lips.

“Good,” she says spinning on her hooves, bidding him to follow. Again he hoists the baskets to his shoulders, and hurries around the stage after her. But not just a stage: a wagon! With huge trumpets, little cannons, and colorful pennants fluttering in the air. Her horn glows and the door swings open. 

“Put them in there.” she says, gesturing with her snout. No sooner have they left his hands than the door slams shut of its own accord. With a startled jump he turns to see Trixie's wisteria-hued eyes staring in to his with a frightful scowl. “The Great and Compassionate Trixie thinks you know how to behave.” With a haughty smirk, her horn tilts toward his feet, and fires out a brilliant golden beam. Instantly the chains blacken, and crumble to powder. “You would be a fool to prove otherwise.”

No doubt.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie wishes to depart forthwith.” Her horn glows again, its light accompanied by muffled whirring from the wagon. With surprising speed, the trumpets, cannons, and even the stage itself retract into ports, which close behind them without a trace.

“You will walk alongside.”

“Yes, Great and Powerful One.” Without another word she climbs aboard the wagon, snout to the sky. Her horn begins to shine, brighter than before, then abruptly stops. She lowers her head, and looks at him askance, then in a surprisingly soft voice:

“Are you injured?”

“No, Great and...Kind One. I can walk.”

“Good.” With her nose up again, her horn flares back to life, and the wagon lurches to motion. He looks back at the dark mouth of the cave, still silent and bereft of the stinking things. He watches the little blue pony, dressed like a fairy-tale wizard, drawing away atop her gypsy's wagon. The little blue fairy-tale wizard pony to whom he now belongs. For the first time, he's able to laugh at the absurdity of his situation.

“Hunh. Better her than them,” he whispers to himself, and with one last glance back at the cave, he turns to follow.

___________________________________ 


Hours have passed. The long shadows and brilliant, cutting sunbeams of the morning have changed to a diffuse emerald glow filtering from the branches above. The forest is thicker here, but the path is still clear, though it twists around boulders and thick dusty roots. It is also stony, and packed hard, so despite the aridity, the unicorn, wagon, and human kick up very little dust as they travel along it. They walk in silence, each stealing glances at the other, but unwilling to make eye-contact. It would be very difficult to tell, but the small, blue unicorn is very, very happy.

He called me kind. The silly thing. Isn't that silly? Feeling warm and fuzzy because the help complimented me? How silly!

A little “harumph” escapes her lips, but is lost in the sounds of the road: birdsong, wagon wheels, wind in the trees, hoofsteps, and footsteps. The thought brings a momentary smile to her lips, but it is small, and well concealed. 

Footsteps. Hmph.

The wind shifts, and her nostrils flare subtly; yes, it's still there, that wonderful smell. At the cave, she'd thought one of the Dogs had worn an equine cologne to impress her, but once they'd passed back under the trees she'd realized it was him. He was dirty to say the very least, but somehow, from beneath the layers of mine-dust a magnificent bouquet reached out to her. 

More glances are exchanged. She doesn't bother concealing them, but neither does she hold them. Frustration builds inside her.

Oh, enough of this! I'm his employer, and his savior; I'll look at him if I want to! I have to take stock of him, after all.

She armors herself with a scowl, and runs her eyes over every bit of his body. She follows each movement of his awkward, bipedal gait, and nods in satisfaction; he really doesn't seem to be hurt.  Good, adopting a lame servant would not be a wise business move. But those clothes!

“What's your name?” She asks suddenly.

“Anon, Great and Powerful One.”

“Stop, Anon. Let the Great and Powerful Trixie look at you.” He turns to face her with a sheepish smile. “Turn around, Anon.”

As she thought, they're nothing but filthy rags now, but, honestly, what else would you expect? Who drapes themselves head-to-hoof in cloth just to labor, anyway? Her eyes narrow in silent exasperation. As if he isn't odd enough, what would the other ponies say, if she allowed him to wear so much?

There's no way I'm taking him to town looking like that! They'll simply have to go, even if some of that wonderful scent goes with them.

“Anon, the Great and Powerful Trixie has decided we will stop. There is a place not far ahead, it's off the main road, and very hard to find. In fact, Trixie has never seen another pony there before.” She pauses, an expectant look on her face.

“Yes, ma'am.” Trixie sighs, and continues.

“Normally, Trixie wouldn't bring anypony, much less anybody else to this place. It's very special to her, but today is also special. In her wisdom, Trixie can see you need to rest, and in her generosity, she will let you.”

“Thank you Great and Kind Trixie.”  She narrows her eyes, and stares down her nose at him. She does it surprisingly well despite being so much shorter.

“This place is magical to Trixie, Anon. Do you understand? It's her magical realm, and she insists you treat it well. Dare you enter my magical realm?” Her eyebrow raises as a strange expression crosses his face. I wonder what that's about, she thinks.

__________________________________ 


Shortly thereafter, Trixie turns them from the road. Off of it's hard surface, the ground is raw, uneven, and covered in wiry grass. Her muscles strain as she threads the wagon this way and that, eventually drawing beneath a cluster of thick foliage, obscuring a cluster of house-sized boulders.

“From now on, Anon, whenever we stop, you are to chock the wheels like so.” She says, taking a set of wedges from beneath the driving board. “Now, follow me.” 

The flowing white flag of her tail, leads him through the waist-high grass, and low-hanging branches. Up a steep rise they go, the scents of moss, wet stone, and faint sulfur gradually growing, until at last, he sees it: hidden amongst the rocks and grass, is a small pool. 

“Here we are, Anon. The water's always warm here, so it's a perfect place to rest. You may do so now, as Trixie wishes to bathe. You will wait, then when she is finished, you will bathe, too.” Without another word she drops her cloak and hat, hips swaying smoothly as she makes her way to the water. 

Nudity really doesn't bother her at all, he thinks, taking off his boots, and stretching back on the grass. With eyes closed, he soaks in the warmth of the sun. Sounds of splashing and dripping echo among the boulders. His mind wanders back to the caves.

How he had longed to see the sun, to see the sky. Images of white clouds and the clear blue expanse had danced through his mind every time he'd been able to close his eyes. Now, they were closed again, this time against the light, instead of the darkness, but they still floated through his mind's eye.

White and blue, he thinks with a smile. Like Trixie. The sound of her voice brings him back to the moment. Is she singing now?

“You'd better believe, I've got tricks up my sleeve...” He lays back again, hands behind his head.

The sun is so nice.

“...see me dominate...” A tugging at his foot draws his attention. It's glowing pink. “...'cause I'm powerful and bra-a-aaave.” He sits up. “Your turn, Anon.” She stands before him naked, and dripping, wet mane plastered to her neck, then shakes like a dog. Water flies everywhere. “What are you waiting for?”

“May I have some privacy, oh Great and Kind one?”

“You don't need privacy, Anon, you need a bath,” she says with a scowl, and touch of annoyance. “Strip.” He freezes, his mind reeling.

What should I do?

“Anon, the Great and Powerful Trixie is loosing patience! You are a servant, not a noble, and servants don't need clothes. Stop reaching above your station, and remove them at once!”

So that's it. Ponies don't care about nudity, and neither did the dog-things. They wore armor and vests, but those were for protection and pockets. They had no care for modesty at all. But I care.

“Pardon, Great and Powerful One, but humans always wear clothes!”

“That's probably why nopony has ever heard of them! Those are ruined, anyway; you'd look better naked.” She turns up her snout. “Strip!” She stamps her hoof. “Now!”

“But Trixie...” Her eyes widen in sudden anger, and pink light blazes from her horn.

Oh no. 

“I am the GREAT and POWERFUL Trixie to you, and you will obey me!” Suddenly, he's airborne. “I, the Great and Powerful Trixie have had enough!”

Without warning, his clothes turn as pink as the rest of him, and do their best to fly from his body. His frantic struggles to prevent them from doing just that set him flipping and turning lazily in the air about his own axes, right at her eye-level. She doesn't look happy.

“Damn it, Anon, stop struggling!”

“Stop trying to take off my clothes!” Suddenly, he drops, stopping just shy of the ground. He freezes in surprise.

“Hah! That got your attention. Now listen here, from just how high up do you think the Great and Powerful Trixie could drop you before you get hurt?” Dead silence. “Would you like to find out?”

“No, Great and Powerful One!”

“Then take those gross things off right now!”

She's bluffing. She saved me from the monsters, she wouldn't hurt me now. Probably.

“I will, Great and Powerful One, just please give me some privacy.” 

“AAAARRRRRRRGGGHHHH!!!!!” With renewed vigor, his shirt flies off before he can react. His pants, already open shoot down his legs. His underwear too, but he catches them just in time, holding with all his might, desperate to keep them from slipping the last few inches around his feet.

He rises higher, too, curled in a fetal position, spinning bare-ass over heels, cock poking back through his legs. Higher and higher.

She was bluffing, right? Suddenly, he's falling. Oh shit! And falling. She'll catch me! And falling. Right?

SPLASH!

The warm, faintly rotten-egg tasting water floods his mouth and nose.

Holy hell, hitting water does hurt!

He looks up at the surface, and swims, emerging to a very amused-looking unicorn. She looks down, smugly, arches her brow, and saunters off to the grass, her tail swishing behind her. Then she settles daintily onto its sun-warmed cushion, and laughs.
> 6 – Master and Cosset
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nearly a week passes by the hot spring. Anon and Trixie resting, healing wounds, cleaning clothes, and getting to know one another. Day after day, night after night, the sun and moon follow their strange procession through the sky, framed by the boulders, and tops of trees. 

Day after day, Trixie practices her magic; new tricks, and new flourishes! Even a unicorn as great and powerful as she can't allow herself to fall in to a rut. Anon? Well, he doesn't have much choice but to watch, though he never complains. In fact, even her simplest tricks leave him amazed. Trixie, of course, can tell, and while she would never admit it, his genuine wonder inspires her to practice all the harder, and makes it that much more fun.

A showpony's livelihood depends on her wit, and talent for subterfuge. Trixie, the Brilliant and Beautiful is no exception. With naught but a well-honed skill for observation, fed with the trimmings of subtle incisive questions, she discovers things about him at a shocking rate. Teasing out the threads of his memories, and patterns of his emotions, until the whole tapestry of  Anon is laid out before her with him none the wiser. And she likes what she sees: stories, an entire other world's worth!

A world with only one sapient species! A sun, and moon which move on their own! And hardest to believe of all: no magic! As if. Well, she doesn't care whether they're all real or not, there are far less entertaining ways to fill the cool, quiet nights around the fire. So they talk, and she regales him with tales of her adventures, in exchange for stories of his home.

Still, for all that, his memory is incomplete, and he's, ignorant of things anyone who grew up in Equestria, would know, pony or not. As the days go on, it becomes more and more apparent how complete his dependence on her is, and she relishes it. Not cruely, for she is not cruel, though many mistake her mien of arrogance for that particular flaw. Neither obviously, for she is far too proud to wear such a deep piece of her soul on her sleeve, but when Anon is cold, she enjoys giving him blankets. When he is hungry, she takes pleasure in sharing her oats, though they are expensive. She even relents, and lets him wear his clothes, on the condition they be kept clean, and in good repair. He must, of course mind hers too, should she choose to wear them.

Night after night,  Trixie disappears into her wagon, while Anon curls in his blankets beneath it; Trixie is not cruel, but she is proud, and would never let a mere servant share her bed. But he doesn't mind; as the fire dies to the soft chirps of crickets, he's filled not with the terror of the caves, or desperation of waking lost in the forest, but with wonder at this strange, and magical place he has found, and for that he is grateful.

As Trixie snuggles down in her blankets she thinks of the things he says, and the things he does. How he asks her questions, and actually listens to her answers, no matter how lengthy or self-aggrandizing they become. Not because she's his employer, but because he's interested. She would have detected tail-nosing from the start, and while she would have accepted it, real enthusiasm tastes much sweeter.

She also thinks of the way he smells. How he says all humans smell like that when they sweat, and how incredulous she had been to learn they don't like it. 

Humans...
humans are silly.

___________________________________ 


Humans are weak.

Even among strong humans, the ones who fancy themselves as strong, know that they are only mighty in comparison to other humans, and would not triumph in a contest of raw strength against most other animals. This doesn't come as a surprise to many humans themselves, but to a pony it most certainly does. After all, they're so big! So tall, so imposing! But not strong at all, as Trixie has come to learn.

Even a few hours in to the first day back on the road, it was clear things weren't going to work out the way she'd hoped. Anon was weak, and that meant he was slow, even on level ground; there was no way she could complete her yearly circuit of Equestria with him pulling the wagon. Even though it was spring, the seasons would turn, and snow would be upon them before they could circle back to the south. 

And that was on flat ground. They were heading north, roughly toward the pass over Foal Mountain, and shortly after leaving the spring had started to come down out of Rambling Rock Ridge. That meant slopes, and with Anon harnessed to the wagon, slopes meant trouble!

Trixie had decided  that her weight was too much for him to bear, and had been walking along as the road began to tilt. It was the perfect vantage to see that even on such a gentle downgrade, and without her riding along, he was having to lean heavily back against the wagon. Then it happened: the surface gave, Anon slipped, and it was only Trixie the Great and Watchful's quick reflexes, and potent magic which kept it from running him over, and careening out of control.

“How am I supposed to relax, study, or do anything at all, when I might have to leap to the rescue at any moment?” She'd asked them both. Anon, wisely, had said nothing; there really was only one answer, and her tone made it clear she already knew what that was, even if she didn't like it: she couldn't. Humans, it seems just aren't as strong as equines. So, for the last few days, as the steep, dry hills changed to a grassy tree-dotted plain, Trixie, the Great and Powerful has pulled her own wagon, while her putative servant strolls alongside.  She's not a happy pony, even if Anon does smell good.

And he can tell. He can't observe as keenly as Trixie, but he doesn't need to. She is not a cruel pony, and will not make him pull the wagon when he is so obviously ill-suited to it, but her pride chafes at this social-reversal, and she isn't in the mood to hide it. She's become quieter, and the easy conversations they'd enjoyed by the spring are gone, replaced by an uneasy silence. When she does speak, her words are curt, and her tone snippy. He wants to help her, and he thinks he knows a way.

“We're stopping here, Anon.”

“All right Great and Powerful One, let me help you,” he says walking over, and reaching for the harness' buckles. 

“The Great and Powerful Trixie doesn't need your help, Anon.” He pauses. She'd practically spat it. The buckles flared pink and dropped to the road. “Pull it off to the side, Anon. There's a stream beyond those trees,” her snout gestured to the right. “Get some water and make dinner” She disappeared into her wagon, and he did as he was told. 

“Dinner is ready, Great, and Powerful One,” he says at last, with a knock on her door. She emerges, sulks her way to the fire, and begins to eat. He watches her take one glum bite after another. “Great and Powerful One,” he begins, “I can tell you're upset. Will you let me do something for you?”

“Like what? You can't pull the vardo, you can't work magic, and you can't eat hay. The Great and Powerful Trixie is stuck feeding you oats.” Then in a small voice: “I want the oats.” She pouts in to the flames.

“It's something special, Great and Powerful One. Something humans do for one another when we...when we care.” She looks up at him. “You're always pulling the cart,” he says, sitting at her hooves. “And I think you must be sore.” With narrowed eyes, she watches him reach out and cup her pastern, gently lifting it and setting it in his lap. She sits impassively, no longer chewing, just silently looking him in the eyes. “I'm not being too familiar am I,” he asks resting his other hand on her cannon. 

Silence. 

Gently he begins to stroke along its length, lightly at first, then with gentle pressure. His fingers following the grain of her fur. It's extremely soft, and very fine. She's chewing again, but not so gloomily as before. Reaching under her leg, up to her hock; pinching his way down to her fetlock. Again, and again, each pass finding her leg softer, and more relaxed. 

She's staring intently in to the fire, an uncertain look on her face as he lays his hands back on the blue velvet of her cannon. Running them smoothly, from hock to fetlock, and down over her pastern. Then cupping it again, and combining the motions. Rubbing her pastern; caressing her coronet: lightly running his fingertips at the bare joint of hoof and fur. Then working his way from hock to coronet again.  A quiet sigh escapes her lips.

He glances up to find her eyes are closed. With a smile he continues along her hoof wall to her heel. Massaging her frog; pressing and rolling in little circles. She winces and melts. 

I must be doing well, he thinks.

Up and down, from hock to hoof, over, and over. Feeling the tension drain from her body with each careful pass. Kneading her hooves with the unique finesse of fingers, and the affection of a truly grateful heart. On, and on. First one, then the other. His entire world narrowing down to firm muscle under soft blue fur, and a unicorn who's lost herself in his touch.

…

She hasn't moved or made a sound in some time. Her breath is deep, and rhythmic. He can't help but smile as he places her hooves back on the ground. Gently he brushes an errant strand of mane from her face, and covers her with his own blanket, then softly: “Good night, Trixie.”

He cleans up, and lays down a short distance away. The night is clear, and the fire is warm. As it fades, he drifts off to pleasant, and unexpected thoughts of Trixie.
> 7 – Vade Mecum
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Through the streets of Hollow Shades walks a man, and he is being followed. It's his first time in a pony town, and as incredulous as he has been at the sight of a town full of sapient ponies, those same sapient ponies have been just as incredulous at the sight of him. They watch him from their windows, they watch him from the streets, and they even watch from the sky; worryingly, he'd thought the clouds themselves were following him, too, until he'd made out the colorful heads of pegai peeking furtively around their edges. Ever since Trixie's show, they just haven't left him alone.

You will never have the amazing, show-stopping ability of The Great and Powerful Trixie!

So her tag line went. Self-chosen, it suits her well, and she says it often. She shouted it during her mock shows and practice sessions by the spring, she'd spoken it aloud as they'd walked along the roads, saying it again and again, varying her tone and inflection each time: chasing perfection. She'd said it so often that now he echoed it back to her, letting her begin, then cheering out her title as the same words left her lips. It had been a tentative gesture at first, said with a cautious smile, and soft voice, but something wistful had shown in her eyes, and kept him doing it. 

Now they, rather than she, say it often, and with great enthusiasm, but in his particular case, it isn't exactly true. He is no show pony of any kind, nor even the least of magicians, but as they'd soon discovered, he has a show-stopping ability all his own. 

Trixie's show was, of course, fantastic. Her pyrotechnics dazzling against the town's preternatural gloom, itself blending seamlessly with their smoke, to make her illusions all the more convincing, and her boasts, therefore all the more believable. The wild concatenations of sound, light, and magic made what little Anon had seen at the Diamond Dog's cave seem like simple parlor tricks. “It's for the ponies,” she'd said in private. “They can use magic, too, so I have to give it my all.” But even so, he'd been a distraction. 

“What if it's dangerous?” He'd heard one of them whisper.

“...dressed head to toe in clothes!” remarked another.

“Do you think it can talk?” They just couldn't focus on an ordinary unicorn like Trixie, with such an alien creature in their midst.

Trixie had noticed too, and while she finished the show with a winning smile and gracious bow, afterward she seemed a little put-out. Then an idea must have struck because she immediately seized a bag of bits and bid Anon to follow. Thus, he found himself being led through the streets - oddly dim since the sun clearly blazed above - by a gorgeous blue unicorn, with a half-dozen other ponies trotting along behind.

Over the course of their journey together, Trixie had become much more relaxed. She smiled real smiles, felt herself at ease under his massages, and, secretly, relished his attention. No longer did she put up a facade when they were in private; she'd even stopped referring to herself in the third person. 

Until they came to town.

The difference was like night and day, and not all together welcome from his point of view. But they were in public now, surrounded by equines of all colors and descriptions. She had an image to maintain, so while disappointing, her demeanor came as no great surprise when she said, “We're here, Anon. Open the door for The Great and Powerful Trixie!” then shouldered her way past with an annoyed little squeak, and her snout in the air. “Anon, you will turn the lock and take a seat,” she continued, “The Great and Powerful Trixie will return momentarily,” and with that, she vanished down a hall.

Anon for his part, quietly does as he's told, taking stock of his surroundings from atop the most enormous couch he's ever seen: wide, long, and fat with padding thick enough to swallow him. It's one of a pair, situated across from an equally large, and ornate counter, the hall down which Trixie had gone  beyond it, obscured by a shiny, diaphanous curtain. The door through which they'd entered is to his right, with many nosy ponies peering at him through its large panes. Short, but very wide windows adorned with a diamond latticework of what looks to be lead run around the top portion of 3 of the 4 walls. The bottoms are lined alternately with full-length mirrors, and equine dress-forms festooned in clothing that looks as impractical as it does beautiful. It's a tailor's shop, and a high-end one by the looks of it.

Why would she bring me here?

“Anon!” 

Speak of the Blueberry.

“Stand up!” she commands, trotting back into the room with another pony in tow. This one's wearing fancy clothes, with her mane in elaborate coifs and curls. 

She's even wearing makeup,  he silently notes. 

“Come here, Anon. The Great and Powerful Trixie has need of you.” At once he rises to his feet, stopping a step away from her. “Do you think you can do it?” she asks the other pony. 

“Maybe, Great and Powerful One. I need to get a better look.”

“Very well. Anon, strip.” He looks back at the door, hesitantly. Anxious faces are still pressed against the glass. The mares follow his gaze. Trixie's horn glows, and the shade drops. “He's easily embarrassed, the silly thing,” she replies to the tailor's quizzical expression. “Now, don't make Trixie repeat herself!”

Well, they are ponies...

He disrobes in front of them, folding his clothes neatly on the sofa, and stands tall.

“Nicely done, Anon,” she says with a mischievous grin. “That wasn't so bad, now was it?”

“Better than the alternative, Great and Powerful One.”

“For you.” Their eyes meet, and her mirth is unmistakable.

Cheeky little Blueberry, he thinks.

The other pony doesn't seem to care. She sets right to work, trotting around him, tape measure alternating between her mouth and hooves. To the couch to check his garments, laying them out, and making notes on a piece of paper. She measures him again, and scribbles, until finally announcing, “I can accommodate your request, Lady Trixie.”

___________________________________ 


Anon lays on his stomach, listening to the rain. To his mind it falls in the same soft way late spring showers often do back on Earth, but instead of asphalt and garbage, it raises the smells of wet hay, and damp stone. The sun had gone down, and it's far too dark to see, but he doesn't mind. Under the wagon he is safe from the rain, and his blankets keep him warm.     

After leaving the clothier's, Trixie had lead him around the city. Pointing out the good, and bad, talking about how it had looked before, or where such-and-such a thing had happened. More than once, the realization of how incredible her memory must be occurred to him. How keenly she must relive the past in order to retain so much.

She had obviously been in a good mood, and even treated him to dinner in a restaurant. She'd said it was a favorite of Pegai, and she'd chosen it for one reason: it served fish! And vegetables. Who knew how delicious they could be after so long on oatmeal? She also paid him, minus expenses, of course, but that still left him with some bits in his pockets. 

Near the end of the day, they'd returned to the store and found an outfit waiting for them, and what an outfit! The tailor had obviously based it on his Earth-clothes, but embellished it beyond belief; its gaudy fabric glittered with rhinestones, even in the soft light of her lamps, and enormous liberties had been taken with both cut, and color. It looked ridiculous, but fit surprisingly well, so Trixie had him carry it out wrapped in brown paper. 

It seems Trixie had not only noticed how much attention he'd garnered, but being the keen business pony she is, decided to capitalize on it. Anon was going to join her show, whether he liked it, or not.

All in all, it had been a very nice day, so even when the clouds rolled in and a drizzle started up, his spirits were high.

____________________________________ 


Trixie, the Great and Powerful, sits in her darkened vardo, lost in thought. What a wonderful day it had been. Anon was so happy to eat that fish. “Anything but oatmeal,” he'd joked, but the joy on his face when he'd seen his meal told her she'd guessed right. 

“Well, of course I did,” she says accusingly, raising a hollow smile to her own acumen. It didn't reach her eyes, and she felt it drop away the moment she stopped trying to hold it in place. It felt so empty. Again, she sits enclosed in her own silence, the drumming of the rain on her caravan hardly registering at all. 

“But he was so happy,” she suddenly whispers, and with a start realizes her face has begun to smile all on its own. His face, his voice, his scent, they all emblazon themselves across her memory, clamoring for her attention. For one little moment, the Great and Powerful Trixie finds herself utterly lost in his impressions, and when she comes to, gasps at the pleasure they make her feel. Good. So good. Her chest is warm, and a funny little flutter dances in her stomach. 

How silly, she thinks. 

“Like some school-filly crush.”

But it is nice. When was the last time I've felt so good? Slept so well? And, suddenly, the memories come rushing back, sweeping her up like debris in a flash flood.

Poor Trixie has rarely had a good night's sleep, even as a filly. Nopony liked her, not the other children, not the adult ponies, not even her teachers. Eventually, even her herd-parents had rejected her, too, so she rejected them right back. It didn't make them like her, of course, but it did make her feel stronger, no longer at their mercy. She didn't need anypony!

But, as her skill grew, and with it, her fame, she discovered that they needed her. Her talent, her showponyship, her acknowledgment, they craved it all. They craved her, and she was happy to throw them the scraps of her attention, as long as they paid her her considerable dues.

Until Ponyville. Until those fools lured the Ursa Minor to town. What were they thinking! How could they have even found one? Only an Alicorn could defeat an Ursa alone! Or so she'd thought. But somehow that mare had done it anyway. And worse, everypony saw her do it, just like they all saw Trixie herself try, and fail. The “Great and Powerful,” magician, upstaged by the town librarian! Helpless, even to save her own home.

In that one fell moment, she'd lost everything: her possessions, her reputation, and her livelihood. But not her pride. Not her pride. Pride which, as it so often does, especially when wounded, blinded her, enraged her, so when she'd at last gotten the “Alicorn” amulet in hoof, she'd cared about nothing else. She'd known the danger, been warned that it only sold it's power at the cost of it's wearer's mind, but she didn't care. Vengeance would be hers! Revenge for what everypony, everywhere had done to her! She hadn't meant to hurt anypony, only humiliate them, and regain her fame. She thought she could control it, or at least resist it's influence, but it, too had bested her.

Then she'd been defeated, again, even with the amulet. Humiliated, again, by that same purple mare. Worse, as the amulets influence waned, and her own mind returned, she found she now had so many new personal horrors to face. So many new regrets to haunt her waking moments, and keep her up at night. 

Deep within her mind, in the darkest pit of her memory palace, the door of the oubliette is closed, but pounds, and shudders in its frame. She presses against it with all her will, struggling against the onslaught which threatens to erupt. In the dark of her wagon, amid the white noise of raindrops, she sits perfectly still. She is as placid as a statue, and very, very close to shattering like so much brittle rock.

Then behind her blankly staring eyes, she sees Anon.

Anon, whom she'd saved from the Dogs. Anon who'd massaged her hooves every night. Anon who cooks for her, and cleans up after her. Anon who...does his job. That is his job. She pays him fair wages. More than fair wages, actually. More than fair.

But why? Why more than fair?

Anon who talks to her. Anon who listens to her. Anon who likes her. Anon who cares about her. Anon who is...out there! Her brow furrows in consternation. Can I really...what if he says no?

No.

I am no school-filly. I am The Great and Powerful Trixie, and I will not be cowed by fear! With a deep breath, she opens her door. A touch of magic, and a canopy forms over her head.

“Anon?” Why is my voice so soft? “Anon!” He looks up from under the wagon.

“Yes, Great and Powerful One?”

How to put this without giving the wrong idea? What is the right idea, anyway?

“You...you shouldn't be out in the rain, Anon. Dry off” - a glowing towel rises in the air - “and come inside. I don't want those new clothes being ruined.”  He knows the new clothes are already in the wagon; he watched her put them there. 

That look on her face. What's wrong?

Quietly, he climbs out from under the wagon and towels himself on it's ledge. Without warning, the towel gains a life of its own, ruffling his hair, and stroking his face and neck.

“Hold still, Anon, I don't want any of that in here.” He notices she's using her fore hooves, instead of her magic. “That's fine, Anon, you may enter.” Her snout is up, but she doesn't meet his eyes. He crawls past her, entering the wagon for the first time. It's cozy, with small, modestly carved cabinetry stained a shade darker than the wooden walls. The scents of cedar, gardenias, and horse hang in the air. 

She reaches up and pulls another blanket and pillow from a net affixed to the ceiling. Passing them to Anon, she at last meets his eyes. “I hope there's enough room.” There is. She snuffs out the candle, and they lay back, a blanket bunched firmly between them.

The steady patter of rain, and Trixie's gardenia-scented mane carry him softly to sleep.
> 8 - Providence
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is a saying among wandering ponies: The Road will provide. Whether whispered, spoken, sung, or written, a tenderhoof never traveled far without learning it from the more experienced travelers. It's said as a statement of faith, when the skies darken, or stomach, and saddlebag hang empty. It's said as an expression of hope, and thanks, when the storms clear, or a patch of fresh green grass, or shiny golden bit gleams up from the dust. Also, at times it's said as a lament of irony, or in mocking bitterness at a bad situation made worse.

Trixie herself has said it at all these times, and in all these ways. A life of hard lessons, and new experiences on the road has taught her that whether most ponies realize it or not, the vagabond's aphorism is an acknowledgment of fate. No matter how one plans, or what precautions one takes, fate will have its way; The Road will provide, one thing or another. So, as she and Anon headed East, out of Hollow Shades, the words were once again on her lips, while a guarded optimism was nurtured in her heart.

The part of Equestria lying between Phillydelphia and Manehattan is a patchwork of tilled lands spread over gently rolling hills. It's one of the most agriculturally productive regions in all Equestria, with a bounty fed by the mineral-rich runoff of the mountains to its west, and northwest, and the mild weather and seasonal rains which blow – completely naturally, no less! -  in from the sea. So great is it's  productivity, that it fills the ships and trains of both great cities and, from there, plates, pantries, and storerooms all over Equus.

In her glory days, Trixie loved passing through this region, but since Ponyville, had avoided it. More accurately, she had avoided the 3 main coastal cities, and thusly had no reason to enter the area, preferring instead to head west from Hollow Shades, then turn north into the isolated smattering of farms and towns in the foothills of the Crystal Mountains. But not this year.

The Road will provide. Whispered in hope, almost a prayer, as she made her way to Phillydelphia for the first time since it happened, Anon in tow. As the days turned to weeks, and the road passed underhoof, she had to admit, The Road, was indeed providing. Word spread, and as they passed  between farms and towns she noticed with delight their audiences grew.

By the time they left Phillydelphia, Anon was no longer seen as a potential predator, but an amazing curiosity, and when they drew close to Manehattan, hordes of galloping hooves, and flapping wings rushed out to meet them.

It was almost with relief they passed back in to the isolation of the Crystal Mountain's foothills, beyond the farms to Manehattan's West. Onward they went, giving show after show,  though they were small and easily done compared to the venues in the big cities. Then, as they descended around the south-western edge of the foothills, heading for Neighagra, discovered their new found fame had beaten them there.

Profits have shot up like Celestia's sun, and not from the show's gross, alone. Afterward, many ponies want to talk with them. They are invited to pubs, restaurants, and cideries, patrons and proprietors alike eager to offer free meals, and more, for their autographs - “It can write!” - or Trixie's permission to take vignettes, hang banners, and tell everypony who comes by that their establishment is a favorite of the Great and Powerful, and her “pet.” Homes are opened to them, private parties thrown in their honor, and even her seamstress back in Hollow Shades is offering to make them new clothes gratis, if only she'll “Please, please please, tell everypony who made them!” Trixie's little chest of bits is overflowing. Literally.

And Anon. Anon, “My little human,” as she thinks of him. They share the wagon every night now, rain or not. His scent is in her home, his warmth in her bed, and she wouldn't have it any other way. They had gone to sleep facing the walls that first unforgettable night, but when she awoke – before he did – snuggled in his arms, muzzle under his chin, she knew a peace she never thought she would. A warmth and contentment that had only grown stronger. No longer does she consider those feelings silly; they're serious, and she wants more.

But what can I do? He's my employee, and not even a pony!

Hiding her feelings around other ponies is easy; she is The Great and Powerful Trixie, and does not hesitate to act like it. Around them. But Anon is different. She desires his affection, not just his respect.

What will I do when estrus comes? What will he do?

She thinks and wonders, wonders and thinks, until one day...

The glorious summer is upon them, and the majesty of Neighagra, behind. Here on the broad, Equestrian plains, trees are a rarity, scattered individually, or in small clusters where the lay of the land accumulates water during the spring rains, holding it below the surface in the form of damp ground throughout the dry summer. 

It was near one of these trees Anon squatted, preparing lunch. They had arrived there the day before, shortly after crossing the river ferry, and Trixie had called a halt. Unbeknownst to Anon, they were behind schedule. Their detours to the great coastal cities had set them behind, but not as much as their celebrity, which required more shows, and more rubbing withers with the mundanes. It was a trade Trixie was pleased to make, but there are only so many days in the year, after all, and now that they were across the river, it was time for her to decide: north, to the Crystal Empire, or west to Vanhoover? There isn't time for both before winter arrives.

Normally, in a case like this she would flip a bit, and let fate decide. But now, with Anon in her care, she couldn't bear to be so nonchalant about such an important choice. So, while Anon cooked, his arrogant, demanding, wonderful boss, Trixie lay in the shade of the tree, clacking beads on her abacus, scratching in her notebook, and doing a very good job of hiding the true source of her indecision.

A shadow glides across the ground; a pegasus. Anon has seen many flying overhead in this area. “We're between Canterlot, and the Crystal Empire,” she'd explained, “so messengers and couriers are always flying back and forth.”  Not only that, but someplace called Cloudsdale was one of the biggest Pegasus cities in Equestria, and supposedly to their south-west, but it's hard to tell if she's being serious when she also says it's made of clouds, and one of it's chief exports is liquid rainbows.

Exactly how much of that is truth, or exaggeration he doesn't know, but he's seen more pegai in this part of Equestria than any other kind of pony, and even so, this one stands out. He wears gold armor, his mane is cropped, and pushed through his helmet, redolent of a Roman soldier's comb on Earth, but rather than red, is as blue as his tail. He circles gracefully through the air and passes overhead again, much closer this time, then lands a few paces away.

He and Trixie notice each other at the same time. She rises to her hooves, and stands impassively. The pegasus turns to her and bows, ignoring Anon completely. “Are you Trixie Lulamoon? Magus of the Road, and Guardian of Anon?”

“I am,” she replies in an equally haughty voice. “What brings a royal guard to search out The Great and Powerful Trixie?”

In lieu of a response, he produces a scroll from his saddlebags, and, with another bow, lays it at her hooves. “Their Royal Highnesses, Princess Celestia, and Princess Luna, have heard of your magnificence! They wish to see your show, and meet the great magician, and her pet!

“You are hereby summoned to appear in the royal court, no later than the end of summer. You are invited to stay as a guest of Their Royal Highnesses in Canterlot Castle, and enjoy their hospitality. How do you answer?”

A moment passes. Her expression doesn't waver. She raises the scroll in her aura, inspecting the unbroken royal seal, then opens it and begins to read. Calmly, she re-rolls it, and regards the pegasus with an expression of whimsical consideration.

“You may tell Their Royal Highnesses that the Great and powerful Trixie, Magus of the Road, and Guardian of Anon accepts their invitation. She will make all due haste toward Canterlot.” The pegasus bows, and takes to the sky. Trixie watches him go, snout raised, as he fades to a distant speck on the southern horizon.

Suddenly, she prances excitedly on tippy-hooves, turning circles, and arching her back, her mane and tail whipping wildly about.

“Yes!Yes!Yes!Yes!Yes!”

___________________________________ 


When he'd first caught sight of Canterlot, it's lone, snowy peak glittered over the distant haze like a beacon. “That's where we're going, Anon,” she'd said, and he'd thought it fortuitous to have such a prominent landmark for their journey.

Soon after, he'd noticed the great thunderhead that never seemed to move: “Cloudsdale,” according to her, and was somewhat disappointed to learn it wasn't on their itinerary. The Great and Powerful Trixie could cast a spell to let them walk on clouds, she was quick to assure him, as though he might somehow think less of her if she could not, but saying “Even the most renowned unicorns in history found flight challenging!” and that she refused pay the steep rates for pegasus-transit; “They're practically criminal!” 

Onward they marched, trundling southward, the mountain looming ever larger as he passed the miles beside his wagon. Yes, it belongs to Trixie, he would admit if asked, but the way their relationship had blossomed, he couldn't help but think of it as his, too. They worked together, traveled together, ate together, and shared the same bed every night. She's a real cuddlebug, too, always finding excuses to touch him while he worked, from the constant brushing of her body against his, to the nonchalant swishing of his legs with her tail. 

He remembered reading that herd animals are prone to physical contact. More so than other social creatures, and from what he had seen of pony interactions, it was true. But this didn't feel casual: the way she stood close, and leaned against him whenever possible, or used his lap as a pillow for her naps. It felt intimate, and he loved every moment of it. Their journey south wasn't a long one, compared to the distance they had already gone, but it was slow; many pleasant hours were passed under trees watching his little pony dream her dreams.

As they drew closer, a true wonder of the place shew forth: a castle, jutting from the sheer western face in defiance of all prudence. “Canterlot! The jewel of Equestria,” so Trixie had said. Not as large as the cities Anon had already seen, she admitted, but was quick to add that what it lacked in size it more than made up for in sheer majesty.

Phillydelphia and Manehattan have the sea; the former as broad, sandy beaches and islands dotted with grassy dunes, the latter with a deep water port and broad, navigable rivers stretching far inland. They share a stretch of land between them renowned for it's fecundity, and both have thriving local cultures of fine art, and culinary excellence. But for all that, they are not Canterlot.

Canterlot, which rises over the confluence of the rolling verdant hills, deep forests, and broad plains of central Equestria. Canterlot, from which the dizzying, alabaster heights, and vibrant rainbows of Cloudsdale are always seen shining against the blue sky. Canterlot, where the immortal Alicorn Sisters, choose to make their home, and rule from the most breathtaking castle the world has ever known. 

“The stories say it's like an iceberg,” gushes Trixie. “That most of it is inside the mountain, and the rooms and tunnels of the castle dig in like the roots of a tree, and that's how it can hang there.” On and on she went, her infatuation with the city on full display, bringing rumor after legend after story to her lips as the mountain itself grew ever nearer.

Finally, on this particular morning, as their destination soared in front of them, she'd put on her costume, chattering incessantly, excited and nervous, saying today is the day they'd arrive. They broke camp and walked happily, talking of the castle, and the magnificent city of wealth, and luxurious haute couture which it wore like a garland, but now they draw close. 

With a gentle nuzzle of his arm – was it his imagination, or did she linger? -  she slides in to her archetype like an old, familiar garment: tail and nose high, eyes, bright and imperious, pride oozing from beneath her wide brim. “We are nearly there, Anon.”

Just like that, he thinks.

“As we have come by royal invite, they will doubtlessly be on the lookout for us. In fact, Trixie would not be surprised if they already know we are here.” As if on cue, a squad of guard ponies in sparkling armor approach.

“Lady Trixie?

“Yes...” she began, eying the details of her uniform. “...Captain.

“Lady Trixie,” she replies with a bow. “By order of Their Royal Highnesses, we bid you welcome. Please allow us to escort you to the Castle.”

“The Great and Powerful Trixie accepts your welcome, Captain. You may lead on.” At a nod from their leader, 4 of the gilded soldiers took up positions in front of their charges, and 2 more behind the wagon, bringing up the rear. Another, with a deep genuflection took Trixie's place in the harness, buckling himself in, then signaling when he was secure. 

We have a retinue! she giggled.

“At your convenience, Lady Trixie,” said the captain, ducking her head and gesturing with a hoof. Trixie looks at Anon, her smile as smug as any he's ever seen her wear, but this time she isn't smiling at him. Neither is she smiling with him; this time she's smiling for him, enjoying the moment, and with the glimmer in her eyes, inviting him to do the same.

His smile joins hers, and with pomp barely concealing glee, she marches forth, up the last bit of road, strutting over the drawbridge, and through the gate. Guard ponies bow as they pass, and with another glance at Anon, Trixie's smile grows. Joy buoys her heart, and the only word she finds adequate, is bliss, made even sweeter by his presence.

All the ponies watch as they pass by, no matter how fine their clothing, or numerous the servants waiting at their tails. Whether they gawk openly, or stand with squinted eyes and hastily adjusted hats, or hide behind splayed fans, and reseated monocles, they are watching.

Probably wondering who's so important as to get a royal escort, Trixie mused. As if there's anybody more deserving! Well...maybe one...she looks at Anon...as deserving, anyway.

And Anon? Anon is watching me! All the grandeur, all the wonder of Canterlot, and he's watching me! Of course, I deserve it, but he's actually watching me!

His smile rivals Celestia's own sun, but can't compare to the blaze in her heart.

Can this day get any better?

She closes her eyes to savor the feeling. An image comes to her mind: Anon, her hooves wrapped around him, a blue flower tucked behind his ear, leaning down, their lips getting closer, and closer...

Ponyfeathers! The hoi palloi can't see me like this!

She forces herself to look away, and notice the other ponies in the crowd, watching her, and watching him. And who is that? Fleur Dis Lee! Very clearly watching him, and not watching her. He's noticed too, and Trixie's mood suddenly darkens as he gives her a smile, and wave. The tall unicorn supermodel turns as they pass, gives him a wink, and prances off. 

No! No, I shouldn't feel like this. He does that to all the ponies when we come to a town, smiling and flailing those “arms” of his like the silly thing he is. He doesn't mean anything by it. Oh Celestia, why do I feel like this?

Beneath her haughty mask, she already knows the answer: because Fleur has a reputation. She's a notorious stallionizer, known far and wide for using her beauty and wealth to revel in the life of the quintessential playmare, and now she's eying Anon!

Suddenly, genuine anger burns inside her, nearly enough to sear through her carefully crafted mien. Nearly; she is the Great and Powerful Trixie, and only the most astute or familiar of observers would recognize the note of rage tinging her usual supercilious disdain. 

She's never told anyone, but she's a monogamist. It's her dirty little secret; she doesn't like to share.

Are humans monogamous? She doesn't know. Should I tell him? She looks at him again.

He must know, it isn't fair to keep it secret if I love him...Love? - Their eyes, meet, and he beams at her – love! I do. I do love him, beyond any shadow of a doubt.

He's not a pony, so maybe he won't be disgusted. He might not...reject...

No! No, no, no! Not again! It's been so long. Memories rise, and despair overwhelms her anger. As quick as thought, she, in turn, crushes it with deliberately stoked fury, focusing on it, and letting it focus her.

All the ponies “great,” and small make way for her, all the way to the castle.

They had damn well better!
> 9 - The Middle City
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

We stand in one of the opulent guest suites of Canterlot Castle, amid sumptuous furniture of fragrant woods, and curtains of silk and velvet. The chambers are large, and luxuriously appointed, making up one of many apartments reserved for favored guests of the Diarchy.  A broad table, centerpiece of the antechamber, is before us. We run our hand over it's surface: cool to the touch, and mildly pitted beneath a satin patina.

There, against the wall is a chez lounge; we're careful not to damage it's intricately painted toile as we sit. It creaks slightly as it takes our weight, built as it is for creatures smaller and lighter than ourselves, but it's well-made, and we do not fear collapse. The air is still, and heavy. Motes of dust glow in the beams of early morning light cutting through the gaps in the closed curtains.

Faintly, we hear echoes through the doors: the castle staff carrying out their duties. Our lounge is comfortable; we wait patiently, as their hoofsteps approach.

The door opens, maids and stallionservants pour through the aperture, dusting, straightening, and changing the unslept-in linens. They work with the quick efficiency of the professional, cleaning from top to bottom, then finally bringing in trays of fruits, cakes, and drinks. The items are arranged on our table, interspersed with colorful flowers and a variety of decorative leaves according to the fastidiously clucking tongue of the chief maid. Then, their task done, the ponies depart, and the door closes behind them.

To our right, the portafenestre have been thrown open, and their bundled curtains waft in the summer breeze. Quietly we watch from our chair as the hours pass. It's a pleasant day, and as the sun rises higher, the sky adopts the deep sapphire blue so beloved of the Princess of Day. On our table, now burdened under the finest oats, sweetest carrots, and juiciest apples, also stand crystal decanters of cider and nectar, casting faint stains of amber and yellow on the polished marble walls. 

More noise from beyond the door, different than before. Louder, steadier. The steps of confident ponies, unafraid to be noticed, not of servants who find virtue in stealth.

The door is thrown open, and soldiers enter, resplendent in their shining armor and cropped manes, each one the image of a recruitment poster come to life. They take up position to either side of the door, as a unicorn the color of sky and high cirrus clouds strides in, Anon at her side.

The squad's doyenne speaks with them, but what they say isn't important to us: mere dutiful welcomes couched in formality. Servants, and facilities of the castle are placed at the guest's disposal, and they're told their hostesses will receive them shortly after sundown. Then the soldiers leave, and we are alone with the unicorn and her human.

No sooner has the door closed than the unicorn's body changes: her eyes and withers soften, her tail relaxes, and her nose no longer points so stubbornly skyward. She busies herself inspecting the rooms, perusing the delicacies laid out for their enjoyment, criss-crossing the apartment, her hoofsteps varying as she transits from stone to carpet, and back again, and tosses her star-spangled garments on the bed. 

Her human, on the other hand watches her, and only her. We can see that she knows, but for reasons of her own, pretends that she does not.

“Trixie, what's wrong?” he at last asks.

She turns her head, and looks at him calculatingly, then, with a forced smile, “I'm thinking of the Princesses.” His face expresses the disbelief his silence does not.

Is that a look of pain on her face? Regret? Guilt? Whatever it might be, it's lost as her large purple eyes take on a flinty cast, and she looks deliberately to the windows. “There are only a few hours until sunset, Anon. We should bathe and make ourselves presentable.”

Soon we rise from the lounge, and follow them to the baths: great open basins of hot and cold water couched between the golden, domed spires of Canterlot Castle on one side, and a stunning panorama of Equestria, highlighted by Cloudsdale's distant, classical beauty on the other. Anon called them “Roman,” and they prove wonderfully distracting. For a time laughter and splashes echo joyously together, then, as evening approaches, they make ready to leave.

We see Anon's surprise at discovering a sauna, as well as the gentle smirk his reaction brings to Trixie's lips. With a wave of her hoof she sends him to enjoy it, saying she will indulge in the attentions of a professional masseuse while she can. The pony in question, a pink mare with a blue and violet mane, stands by her tables. One meant to hold a pony, the other covered in fancy bottles of unguents, odd tools, and sets of hoof-gloves, each of a different design, intended to help a creature without fingers reach all the right spots.

The masseuse, ensuring her charge is comfortably prone,  slips her hooves in to a pair of the special gloves, and sets to work on Trixie's supple flesh. She is very good; she must be to hold such a prestigious position, but she can not see inside Trixie's mind. She can not see that even with her great skill, and specialist's tools, Trixie finds her wanting, craving the responsive touch of fingers, over the dumb press of hooves. She can not see that as she plys her trade, and the Great and Powerful Trixie relaxes, her mind wanders to uncomfortable places. 

But we can, and we do, seeing images of Fleur's smirking wink dance through her mind. 

What if Fleur asks to him to herd with her, she wonders. No, she won't do that. She'll try to use him as a cooler, though. He's famous, exotic, and new, just the kind of thing Fleur would want as an accessory.

Suddenly, behind her closed eyes: Anon rutting Fleur, sitting, legs spread as she lies with her snout between them. He strokes her glowing horn and takes it into his mouth as she fellates him, his shaft passing between her lips as her tongue stretches to lick...

A noise, half grunt, half agonized moan, and the masseuse's touch lightens.

I love him. I love him. By Celestia, I love him. 

We sit, and watch the emotions play across her face. She may be a monogamist, but that doesn't mean she's heartless, despite what many ponies would say. She loves him, and wants him to love her back.

But how can he love me if he doesn't know me?

She is a proud pony, and her high standards demand she say something, but what, and when?

He'll probably leave after he finds out what a freak I am...and I need this show. Tears well in her eyes, but they are small, and easily hidden.

I'll tell him after.

And so time passes. Shortly thereafter Anon returns from the sauna, and we depart through the wide halls of Canterlot Castle. They walk side by side, Trixie leaning heavily against him as we make our way back to their rooms.

“Anon,” she begins, as he closes the door. “Do you remember what I told you? About our sun and moon?” He nods. “Come with me.” She gently takes his hand between her teeth and guides him through the curtains. We follow, onto a balcony of marble and porphyry long enough to link the apartment's French doors like a corridor. The air is cool, the sky aflame, and here, on fine couches set amid ferns and ivy, Anon and Trixie sit expectantly.

“The servant said that courtyard over there connects to the throne room.”- she points -“If we're lucky, they might stand there tonight.” 

“To move the sun?”

“Mm-hmm, the moon, too.” 

She speaks again as the twilight deepens. “See, Anon? Those are the Princesses! Celestia is the white one, the other is Luna, her sister.”

“I remember, Blue. They're a lot bigger than...”

“Shhhh,” she chided, leaning more heavily against him. “Watch.” In the purple twilight, the larger ones horn glows brighter than any he'd seen, and the sun suddenly dips below the horizon.

“That's impossible!”

“I told you so. Keep watching.” After the sun sank it was the other pony's turn. Her horn too, flares, and the moon rises. 

“But...”

She smirks, and playfully nips his arm.  “Now, what did the Great and Powerful Trixie tell you?” He looks back and forth from the moon, to Trixie, and the retreating forms of the Princesses.

“But, even if the sun and moon did move, we wouldn't be able to see they had moved for...well, for a few minutes at least!”

“That doesn't make any sense, Anon.”

“But the light has to travel...”

“Magic.”

“But...”

“Magic,” she says, her stark mane stirring with the ivy in the night air. Anon closes his eyes in sudden pleasure, and a moment later Trixie's gardenia scent washes over us, too.

“Magic,” he whispers. Satisfied, she lays her head in his lap, then rolls on her back, smiling up at him. With a smile of our own we stand, and leave them in peace.

___________________________________ 


Two guardponies march in lockstep over the herringbone floors of Canterlot Castle; behind them strides a unicorn, and her human. They walk side by side, Trixie ever so slightly in front, her flank pressing lightly against him. Anon notices she changes her steps to match his, their hooves and boots clopping as one. What's come over her?

Even when the guards came to fetch them, she remained at his side. When they knocked , he watched the light in her eyes change, felt the tension spring to her muscles, but something was different. Despite their private familiarity, she was always the same prideful, demanding creature in public, but now, to him, her words are blunted, her touch is constant, and it fills him with unease.

Are the Princesses tyrants, he wonders. They didn't look all that bad, quite the contrary, they looked like visions of heaven. But his travels have taught him the phrase appearances can be deceiving, is even more important here than on Earth, and there is no shortage of rumors whispered about Princess Luna.

Shortly, their way is blocked by huge double doors, gilded and impossibly tall. Trixie shifts her weight, subtly leaning more firmly in to his thigh as a guard announces their arrival. Smoothly, quietly, they swing open.

A storybook scene stands before him. Tapestries and banners hang from the walls in a light which seems to come from nowhere, and everywhere. Stained glass windows, dark against the night, yet somehow still vibrant, rise in frames as tall as the sky itself. A thick carpet paves a burgundy path all the way across the mirrored marble floor, to a great golden dias, itself crowned with a towering golden throne, as though by a unicorn's horn. The silver voice of running water sings clearly in the room's warm light.

Both Princesses sit waiting, Luna, atop the throne, as is customary at night, Celestia, on the dias beside her.

Trixie takes the lead. He follows behind her, stops where she stops, bows when she bows, and lets her do the talking. What a surprise for him to discover his little pony has some history with the Princesses: a former pupil, having attended Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns in her youth. Princess Celestia's smile betokens both remembrance, and happiness to see things going well in her whilom student's unorthodox path through life.

They want to know everything about Anon, of course. Who he is, where he comes from, and how he came to be in Equestria. He answers honestly, saying all they wish about himself and his world, but on the last he hesitates, saying that he doesn't know for sure, but often dreams of immaculate staircases in the deep forest, a throbbing buzz growing in his mind as he climbs them, then treacherous passages of thorns and fear. This seems to satisfy them, saying his lack of memory is itself a clue, as they know of a hedge whose ravenous spines tear more than just flesh.

Trixie tells the story of meeting Anon, feigning ignorance of the anger it sets straining the Royal's composure. Once her tale is told, Princess Celestia promises to “correct” the Diamond Dogs herself. She is politely vague about her meaning, but her face leaves little doubt of her sincerity, eliciting a shudder from Anon. He knows the Princess moves a star, united Equestria, and has held power against challengers both banal and eldritch for over a millennium. With the realization of  her true, terrifying might, and what she could do with it if she chose, how could he not?

Finally, the sisters set a date for the show: one week hence, and with invitations to enjoy all that the castle and city of Canterlot have to offer, dismiss them. One week. A long time to wait, not long at all to plan and practice. It doesn't help that Trixie is distracted. She hides it well, but he knows her, and it hurts she won't confide in him. 

Yet as well as the past months have taught Anon to read her, Trixie is better. A lifetime of deliberately cultivated perception merged with raw, aching love means his pain at her secrecy strikes her like a physical blow. She makes up for it as best she can, staying by his side, and holding him at night as she did before Fleur drove her poisoned horn into her heart. But she can see he doesn't understand her recalcitrance, and loathes herself for its necessity.

One day, while out in the city, they pass a flower cart. Trixie lingers for a moment, pulling Anon back. The open, innocent smile on her face is a kind normally reserved for sheltered ingenues, but she wears it anyway, even letting it grow, asking “Isn't that blue one pretty?” The florist's eyes widen, and she stares at them as though Trixie has said something decidedly outre. 

It really is a pretty flower, the same powder blue as Trixie's coat. Anon opens his mouth to say so when she lets out a breathy, uncharacteristically nervous laugh, and trots on. Flower pony watches them go, looking for all Equestria as though Trixie had suddenly sprouted wings to compliment her horn.

Slowly, stressfully, the week passes. Now, they wait, hiding behind the curtains of both stage, and  night, prepared to give the show of their lives. The call for the guests to rise as the Princesses take their seats goes out. Trixie rears, gently placing a fore hoof on his hip, and her muzzle behind his ear. “Whatever happens after this, Anon, this is our show tonight.” He looks at her strangely, eyes searching her own.

Is she crying?

Another nuzzle, quick as thought, and then her head, briefly on his chest. “Forever and always, yours and mine.”

From beyond the curtain, the Princess' own voice rings, “Let, the show begin!”
> 10 - Nessum Dorma
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many nights since the tragedy of Ponyville, after the sun fell, and the dark closed in, Trixie would lie in her bed, unable to sleep. In the warm months, with her windows open, the staccato cadence of the night creature's peeps and chirps would subtly nudge her from one memory to the next. When the weather turned, and her wagon was shuttered tightly against the cold, she would lie cocooned in her blankets, silence, or perhaps the low moaning of wind in the wagon's cracks slowing her mind to a lethargic crawl through the worst moments of her past. But whether summer, winter, spring or fall; in chill silence, or by the starlit chorus of summer nights, her musings would always drift back to that which she had lost.

The fantasies of her glorious return to celebrity were many and sundry, as befits a pony of her ego, and intelligence; elaborate affairs filled with lavish praise, humiliation of rivals, and the receipt of gifts and privileges which everypony would once again see as her due. Everypony would know her, everypony would love her, and everypony would call her Great and Powerful again -  and they would mean it!

Tonight, surrounded by the story-book beauty of Canterlot Castle, her fantasies have finally come true.

She had given the best show of her entire life. She did it for herself, yes, but more than that, she had done it for her heroines, the Princesses, and for her human, Anon. She is a proud pony, not a selfish one, and the presence of one motivation does not obviate any others; true, she wanted the Princesses to think as much of her as she does of them, but she also wanted to show them the time of their lives, and to make sure Anon's fame would secure his future, as she knew he may not let her be there for him after tonight.

Even the stuffy haute monde of Canterlot were impressed, and in their own pompous way, they let her know. After her show, at the kind of party she had always dreamed of attending, as she mingled with the crème de la crème of Equestrian society, they had lain their laurels stiffly on her head. She knew it was all exaggeration; they loved her, yes, yet the praise was a role they were playing because they believed their peers expected it of them.

But Trixie didn't mind that it was their own little show, for she was a showpony, too! The hottest, most famous, most exotic showpony in Equestria! Tonight, the highest nobles, richest magnates, and Royalty itself all bore the words Great and Powerful on their lips, and with them, sincerity, in their hearts!

She is Trixie, the Great and Powerful; she's always known it, and now nopony can deny it!

Then she had come, Canterlot's own  Equus-famous super-model, known even in the distant lands of griffons, and dragons for her talent, and taste for the exotic. Up until now, she had been easily avoided: Fleur could not enter the castle, and there had been far too much practicing to do to waste time in town. Trixie knew it would have been an inconceivable snub for the Princesses to deny a pony of her standing an invitation, though, so wasn't surprised to see her, “Squirming from the woodwork like a stupid, gangly pink-haired termite!”

Trixie knew a greeting between Anon and Fleur was expected, and so grudgingly allowed it, but as the night wore on, the manner of her interest in him became clear. She wasn't even trying to hide it; not content to merely brush against him, she was actually leaning against him! Nuzzling him! In front of everypony!

Jealousy and rage smouldered in Trixie's heart; as the lead mare of her herd, custom dictated Fleur ask her permission to court Anon before expressing her interest to him, not that she would have given it. How dare that whorse behave this way! Of course, she is the Great and Powerful Trixie, and does not let it show. She masters her feelings, not the other way around. But it hurt. A lot.

Privately, she had feared what she would do if this moment came to pass. In her nightmares, the esprit de l'escalier would seize her tongue, and she would watch helplessly as Fleur led Anon away. That would happen over her dead body. Or Fleur's, but now that the moment had actually arrived, she knew exactly what to do.

Trixie had never given Anon a flower, and they were not officially a herd, but she was still his boss, his lead mare; he was still her stallion, and she would make sure that termite knew it in no uncertain terms. So, when the Princesses announced their retirement for the evening, she captured Anon's attention from Fleur with a word, guided him away from her with a touch, and brought him to their chambers straight away, making damn sure she saw every step, every graceful turn in the waltz of her defeat. Then savored a smug, silent laugh at the look of shocked humiliation on Fleur's face when, in front of everypony, Anon pulled away from her touch, told her, “Good night,” and left with his hand on Trixie's withers.

Her rival was vanquished.

Now, they sit, behind closed doors. Trixie's nerves are getting the better of her, and adrenaline causes her trained perception to make each detail in the room leap out at her. The softness of the bed, the sweet fragrances of its apple-wood frame and herb-stuffed mattress. A cricket chirps from the balcony. Anon furrows his brow in worry.

He knows something is coming, but not this, how could he?

It's time; Celestia help me.

“I love you, Anon.”

“I love you, too, Trixie.” He smiles, she blinks.

Just like that? “You're not surprised?”

“Is this what all the matter's been? Didn't you already know how I felt, Trixie?”

What is this feeling? Such joy! Such Warmth! Threatening to wash over and carry her away! “Of course I knew, doofus!” she says with a strained laugh.

He laughs too. “My incredible little pony really didn't know!” Deep within her chest, a pressure swells, so warm and buoyant it's almost painful, surely her heart will burst? He moves to hug her, but she stops him with a fore hoof on his chest; there's more, and he must hear it.

“There's something about me you need to know, Anon. Something selfish...v-vile.” She chokes back a sob. “Something...” No, not yet! I can't let myself cry yet; that comes later, when I'm alone again.

It's the hardest thing she's ever done, but she is a proud pony, and filled with love; love is duty, and she will not let herself fail him. Love demands revelation, and maybe, it will demand she let him go. 

A breath to steady herself. 

“I'm a monogamist.” Her ears fold back despite herself, and her eyes cast themselves to the floor, but she forces herself to continue, terrified that she might not get the chance to finish, if she lets him speak now. “I love you, Anon, with all my heart and soul. I want to be with you, want to be there for you, more than anything, but I can't share you.”

Why can't I look at him? “I...I just can't.”

But I will look at him! Painfully, she brings her eyes to his; the effort of doing so scrawls itself across her face. He doesn't look angry, or disgusted, but, she reasons, that's probably just surprise.

“Seeing you with Fleur...I just can't.

“I understand if you don't want somepony like me. Understand if you...hate me, for being so selfish, but I want you to love me as much as I love you; to know me, and to do that you have to know this, too.”

There. I've done it. Whatever happens next, I've done my duty, and bared my soul to this one, special somebody. 

Moments pass.

Whole eternities, but the expected castigation never comes. Instead he leans in, and hugs her, squeezing her against his chest. “I don't want anypony but you.”

And there they sit, holding each other as Trixie's frantic sobs wrack both of their bodies. When at last, he sees she's cried herself out, he kisses her neck, and whispers in her ear, “I love you, Trixie. All of you, only you, just the way you are.” He looks down, to see hot, round tears spilling over, beginning to run down her face again, and her eyes; so soft, and so very, very large.

“Don't leave me, Anon. Please, please don't ever leave me.” He kisses away her tears, and holds her close.

“I never will.”

And that, dear reader, brings us to the end of our tale. We won't say they lived happily ever after, for no couple ever does. There are ups and downs yet to come, as is the nature of life, but through it all, they had each other, and they lived a life of love.