> Weary Traveller
>  by ashi
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> 1. My Inspiration
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For the traveller who dared to brave this sort of terrain at this time of night alone, there were many potential dangers that they had to be wary of; though it was considered unusual, even out here in what was affectionately thought of as the boondocks of Equestria, it was always possible that some impudent pony was waiting in the wings to relieve a helpless wayfarer of their valuables.

When she had been much younger – fresh-faced, innocent and keen – and she'd first set out on this journey, Trixie recalled with a faint smile how every snap of a twig and every whimper from the woods had once set her teeth on edge, but now that she was a seasoned globetrotter she scarcely even noticed the ambient sounds surrounding her any more.

Flaring her nostrils in disgust, she quickly came to the conclusion that the same could not be said for the smells; her irritation at this fact was somewhat mollified by the knowledge that she was most certainly the primary contributor in that regard. She'd packed out her dinky little caravan with almost everything that you could want if you were planning to the stay on the road for several months at a time, but what it did not have was indoor plumbing so she could only bathe whenever she came across a source of fresh water. Her flowing cape and elegant hat had seen better days, too. She hoped that the next town she came to had a decent seamstress who would be able to effect repairs on them. They were more than a part of her act: they were a part of her very identity.

Hidden as it was behind a dense layer of fog and clouds, Trixie found it almost impossible to make out the Moon; none of its usual pearlescent radiance reached her, and she brought herself to a sudden stop, the caravan trundling to a halt a half-second later in the dirt behind her. The way ahead was long and winding, and without the light of that giant beacon in the sky it was far too dangerous to press on. The last thing that she needed right now was to be held up because of a twisted ankle gained from plodding along in the tenebrous mire that awaited her. Uncoupling herself from her caravan, Trixie stretched out her tired limbs, grunting softly as her bones creaked and cracked with each flex.

She saw that she'd come to rest at the edge of a high hill overlooking a wide valley; taking a seat on a broad, flat rock, Trixie looked down into the gully and could just about make out – a solid day's travelling, at least – her destination: through the dense barrier of mist that permeated the vale, it appeared as nothing more than another lonely point of twinkling yellow lights isolated from its nearest neighbours by darkness and danger. A shining pearl glowing in the maelstrom between sombre earth below and foreboding sky above. It probably had a name tinged with history and hope, but to Trixie it was just another point on a map. Just another show. Just another payday.

If I'm not sweeping their stunned jaws off of the floor by the end of my performance, then I won't have done my job properly. Almost certainly, this isolated little hovel will have seen nothing to compare to the Great and Powerful Trixie's magic. Perhaps I will even grace their expectant eyes by unleashing upon them my newly-perfected pyrotechnics spell.

Perfected. Right. It was getting there, but getting there wasn't there. She uttered a sigh, and was momentarily enthralled by the dancing ice crystals merging and mingling in front of her.

Shaking her head and resettling her attention on the here and now, Trixie found her inquisitive purple eyes flitting along what little she could make out of the path toward the village; it was studded with a thick canopy of trees, making it almost impossible to see what lurked within. She could hazard a guess, though, and had she been a filly such conjecture would likely have given her nightmares for weeks. The Moon had always been an odd source of comfort to her in those times when she'd been most afraid of the monsters that lurked under her bed, and loathe as she was to admit it – even to herself – it was unsettling to have it hidden away and she shuddered inwardly, huddling deeper inside her star-laden cloak for protection as much as warmth. She couldn't help but feel like a silly foal again, watching the Moon describe its glacially-paced arc through the sky from the frost-bitten window of her bedroom, half-hidden underneath a thick duvet.

Another source of comfort on those long, dark nights had been the circus that would periodically visit her small town; for those brief few weeks every year, the gleaming effulgence of the Ferris wheel that could be seen from anywhere, the high-topped tents with their mysterious delights secreted away beneath thick folds of patterned vinyl, the air laced with the delectable, stomach-tingling scents of foods both deep-fried and sugary, and the cacophonous sounds of joyous, happy ponies would temporarily banish all of those pent-up demons that lurked in the darkness and who could only be seen from the corners of her eyes.

One night when she'd been feeling particularly low – a bad day at school, perhaps, though the particulars of the trauma had long since deserted her – she remembered pushing her way to the front of a rather sizeable crowd to see what had them so entranced. They had been watching a beautiful, almost ethereally so, showpony running through a gamut of magic tricks; at one point, her top hat had worked itself loose from her head to reveal a mane of spectral malachite-hued hair that seemed to take on a life of its own. Her beryl eyes had locked with Trixie's for just a split-second, and she'd winked at her as her horn ignited to send a cascade of azure streamers flying into the night sky.

The others had been merely entranced by her display, but like all ponies who didn't understand art they'd soon wandered off to find a new distraction; Trixie, however, was bewitched and in that moment she suddenly understood – as if a piece of her soul had been missing up until this moment and was only now returning – what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She wanted to be like this pony: this alluring magician who radiated self-confidence and power, and journey from town to town bringing joy and colour to the grey, lifeless peons of Equestria. Until she'd gotten a bit older, anyway, and realised that good intentions were nothing next to the more ephemeral charms of cold, hard cash.

What few friends she'd managed to cobble together over the years had always told her that her magical skills were rather good. They weren't just being polite either, as – in due time – a roving scout happened to visit her town and was so taken with her displays of sorcerous prowess that he offered a place at Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns to her. Unfortunately, she recalled somewhat bitterly, things had not worked out there in the way that she'd hoped, and she'd ended up quitting after barely completing a single semester. They were all obsessed with the notion that magic was a great responsibility and that it should be used wisely. None of them were much interested in the idea that it could also be a source of amusement and wonder, a distraction. For fun.

So. All alone and desperate to prove herself, Trixie had left Canterlot and the school behind, said goodbye to those closest to her, purchased a ramshackle old caravan and dolled it up as best she could with the few remaining bits that had been left to her, absolutely determined to make it because she so resolutely believed that this was what she had been put here to do. At times, it had been difficult. At times, she had almost given up and crawled back home, but she absolutely refused to do so because, as she told herself every night before falling asleep, surely it must've been the same in the beginning for that exquisite magician back at the circus all those years ago.

I just want to inspire somepony, as she inspired me. Is that so much to ask?

Trixie was brought crashing back to reality by the sight of the thick, soupy fog roiling and coalescing before her very eyes; her imagination, unchecked, soon turned it into one of the monsters from her half-forgotten nightmares and she almost let out a cry of panic as it sought to devour her. Fog. Mist. Vapour. That's all it is. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, striving to get her racing heart back under some semblance of control. It's only here because the benighted weather pegasi of this region couldn't be bothered to get up off of their lazy butts and do their job properly. The Great and Powerful Trixie is frightened of NOTHING.

Great and Powerful. Words that demanded your attention. Words that commanded respect when used propitiously. Since time immemorial, mages and conjurers of all sorts had been describing themselves as such, and Trixie saw herself as a being very much in that same mould: as a pony who brought wonder and joy to the masses through her feats of thaumaturgic endeavour. She was not Great and Powerful because she wielded fantastic powers like the ruling princesses or their ilk, but because she used her talents in new, exciting and creative ways.

Concentrating, screwing her eyes up so tight that the tears were stopped in their tracks, Trixie muttered under her breath, over and over again like a mantra, “I am the Great and Powerful Trixie, and I am not scared.” When she finally risked opening up her eyes again, her world was filled with dazzling light.

Fireworks.

Great pink bursts coruscated from her horn, exploding in the sky around her and bathing the landscape in a gentle rose flush. The fog – and the monsters within – seemed to dissipate.

The darkness was banished.

Trixie could feel the smile threatening to break out across her muzzle at the sight, and she allowed it; somehow, it always struck her that the world – no matter where you were in it, or how upset you had been before – didn't seem so bad when there were fireworks out there to rob the night of its gloomy savagery. She knew that all ponies, even the grown-up ones who professed to only care about serious, grown-up issues, needed to have a bit of light and colour in their lives otherwise they could not properly be described as living.

When you gazed upon the splendid pyrotechnical displays brought to life either through magical or more mundane means, you were seeing light's true beauty being birthed into the world; the black sky and its pinpoint dots of faraway stars was nothing more than a mere canvas upon which the artist painted a marquee of  swirls, colours and shapes. Some detractors might say that you were disrupting the solemnity of that empty slate horizon, but Trixie had never cared much for peace.

In fact, it was her considered opinion that it was much better to march in step to the brilliant lights, bold noises, and glorious sights around her. At least, that way, she didn't have to listen to the sonorous traipsing of her own hooves on the endless, desolate plains as she trudged forlornly through the night to her next destination, cursed to never find a place to call her own.