Showmareship
“But you know we’re a flight display team, right?”
Spitfire, sitting in her office behind a desk littered with papers, stared down her nose at the young mare, still not convinced this wasn’t one of Fleetfoot’s pranks.
“Yes ma’am!” the mare – named on her papers as Lulamoon, T. – said. “The best one in all of Equestria! That’s why I pulled all the strings I could to get this placement.”
Try though she might, Spitfire knew she couldn’t stop her eyebrow announcing her bemusement to the world. “And you know that flight teams… fly?”
“I… yes?” She even looked a little confused that Spitfire had asked such a question.
How had Soarin concluded that this filly would be the one best suited to being granted the Wonderbolts work experience placement, out of the dozens if not hundreds who usually applied? Spitfire had told him to try to be open minded about it, sure, but this was not what she’d meant.
She shared a look with Cumulonimbus, the great fluffy Wonderbolt team cat in his nest in the corner, but that was about as unenlightening as she’d expected. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude about this. Or, dare I say it, prejudicial.” Still no sign of young Miss Lulamoon grasping what Spitfire was getting at. She really was going to have to come out and say it. “You are a unicorn. How were you planning to fly with us?”
For the first time, the young mare faltered. Her body language had been transparent the whole time – eight years ago Spitfire had been fifteen herself, and she remembered it well – with over-egged enthusiasm carrying a bundle of nerves, but now her spine lost just a bit of the bravado holding it up.
“Oh, uh,” she flushed, “I thought I’d just stay down here and watch from the ground. From the clouds, I mean.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “It took me all summer to master the cloudwalking spell.”
Spitfire hated to leave a young mare hanging there while her spirit drained away, but she wasn’t having much success coming up with a response that wouldn’t most likely make things worse.
The poor mare spared a glance up at Spitfire. “To be honest, I thought I’d call it a success if you did any more than just dump all the week’s copying and filing on the work experience kid.”
On the inside, Spitfire sighed. Was it worse when a kid went into a situation like this with faith in adults and ended up disappointed, or when they’d already lost it before starting? “I don’t doubt some, perhaps many, places would do that.” Under Wind Rider, the team certainly had. That had been one of the first changes Spitfire made when she took over as captain. “We don’t. We try to make the work experience program here actually count for something.” They didn’t have to, it’d continue to be the most sought after work placement either way, but… “Too many ponies don’t have the connections or the opportunities to get here, and the program is a start towards levelling that playing field.”
Which was a great speech to make if your aim was to appear sanctimonious, but not so great for cheering up an embarrassed teenager.
“Besides,” Spitfire added, trying to lighten her voice, “as you can see, we’ve already got someone to take care of the paperwork.”
The young mare managed to meet Spitfire’s eyes, but did so blinking, with a blank expression. Spitfire nodded towards Cumulonimbus in the corner, and Miss Lulamoon’s eyes followed, widening a moment later – presumably at the realisation that the ‘nest’ he was curled up in was made from official-looking papers, one of which he was busily shredding and eating.
Ok, now she was back on her feet, it was time to make sure she understood the gravity of what she’d done. “That’s why I’m giving you a hard time, if you hadn’t figured it out. Because somewhere, a dejected pegasus has lost their shot at working with the Wonderbolts for a week and proving they’ve got what it takes to someday make the team. All to indulge some unicorn with no interest in flying.”
That came out harsher than Spitfire had expected, but she didn’t think it was unwarranted. It was true, and, while the young mare might not have considered the consequences when applying, how else would she learn to in future if they weren’t pointed out?
“But Wonderbolts do more than just fly!” And there it was, for the first time: a little sliver of fire in the young mare’s eye, the kind of thing that drove Wonderbolts along. And, as far as Spitfire could tell, it wasn’t faked. “You’re showmares! You command the stage, you hold the crowd right where you want them, you make their jaws drop, make their breath catch, make them scream with delight. You guys put on the best show in Equestria. That’s what I want to learn.”
Again, Spitfire glanced at Cumulonimbus, and found herself wishing there was someone else there to exchange a look with, just to be sure. Either she’d missed something, or the mare in front of her had really missed something.
“Ok, thanks, but… we prompt that reaction because we’re a flight display team. Because we’re doing things that are obviously difficult, and we’re really good at it. That’s impressive just by being what it is, because most ponies know they can’t do that.”
Even before Spitfire had finished, she could see the mare biting her lip, obviously wondering how far she could push back when arguing with the captain of the Wonderbolts. Spitfire waited for a response, and then pushed for it with a gesture.
“But I’ve seen you guys practising,” young Miss Lulamoon said, “just walking over here to your office today. I know the flying must be just as difficult as when you do it in the show, because I recognised the manoeuvre, but it doesn’t look it. It looks like a much bigger deal on stage.”
Spitfire gave her a flat look. “Today they’re refining their kolvoord starburst. It’s still a pretty big deal.” ...No, she was better than that. She was not going to snap at a schoolfilly who failed to be adequately wowed. “Sorry. I understand what you mean. There are certain elements to the routine which aren’t there during training, and only come out during the show itself. The real thing is more of a performance, I guess.”
“Exactly, performance, that’s the word!” the young mare nodded rapidly. “Only, uh, it’s not quite. Not just that, I mean.”
Raising an eyebrow, Spitfire waited for her to continue.
“When you go out on stage at your shows – the whole team, but you in particular – it’s like you own the place. You have absolute mastery of your audience. That’s what I want to learn.”
Spitfire sat, offering only contemplative silence. She’d certainly never thought of approaching their stagecraft from that angle before, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. And the forms were all filled and filed now, so, even if she’d kicked young Miss Lulamoon off the base for all the reasons she’d listed minutes before, there’d be no way they’d be able to get a replacement pegasus candidate in in time, not with all the insurance and risk assessment stuff. So giving this the go ahead didn’t really cost anything.
“So,” she said, steepling her hooves on her desk in front of her, “you want to learn that? In a week? From the ground? While we’re busily rehearsing for the last show of the season, Hearth’s Warming Eve in Canterlot?” She blew out a long breath through her lips. “I hope you’re good at taking notes.”
One week of watching and learning from the best, and the main thing Trixie had taken away was that she was totally out of her depth. Even the lowest-ranking Wonderbolt had a natural flare and flashiness she just couldn’t match. It was like eyes sprang to them when they walked into a room.
So when she sat in a room full of Wonderbolts, as she had each mealtime that week, she’d never felt more plain or unnoticed.
Not exactly the most uplifting way to spend Hearth’s Warming.
“Hey, kid,” she heard from behind her, and turned to see Spitfire’s head leaning around the doorway. “Got a minute?”
“Uh – ” Trixie blinked “ – sure.” Her eyes flicked down to her plate, which she’d just finished emptying anyway. “Let me just put this away, and I’ll be right with you.”
She jumped to her hooves, returning her tray to the front of the cafeteria and getting back over to Spitfire as hurriedly as she could.
“Walk with me,” Spitfire said, turning and trotting out the door, leaving Trixie to follow.
‘Walk with me’ was one of those phrases Trixie tended to associate with stoic ponies whose feelings consisted mostly of dark glasses and rock music. When a pony said it nonchalantly while strolling off outside with no jacket while it was snowing, the association was thoroughly cemented.
After a week of being shown how just as tough as a Wonderbolt Trixie really wasn’t, she didn’t hesitate for more than a moment before levitating her own jacket from her chair and stuffing herself into it on her way out.
“So,” Spitfire said as Trixie caught up, “how’s the week been?”
They strolled down the steps from the mess hall, walking into a world blanketed in white. The runway had been dutifully shoveled clear, and was kept so by two cadets even as the snow continued to fall. But the rest of the Wonderbolts Academy was covered by several inches of snow, from ground to rooftops. Snowflakes seemed to hang in the air, more disturbed by Trixie’s clouds of breath than by gravity.
It had been hard to imagine, a week ago, how the severe-looking academy could even acknowledge the existence of Hearth’s Warming, especially with the total absence of decorations, but here it was as a winter wonderland and the effect was magical.
“It’s been eye-opening,” Trixie said, trying to sound enthusiastic despite shivering. “There’s so much routine and professionalism – which I expected – but also everyone’s been so friendly and polite. Everypony has heard horror stories from cadets who’ve been through trials week, so I thought I was in for a tough time, but they’ve all been really nice.”
Maybe they just didn’t know what to do with me.
“They’re tough on the tryouts to keep them disciplined,” Spitfire said, pulling out her familiar sunglasses as the sun glinted off the snowfield, “and discipline is everything when flying in formation. Since you weren’t flying, they had no need.” She barely looked at Trixie as they walked, continually swinging her head side to side like she was inspecting every square metre of the entire base. A little softer, she added, “Actually, I think most were glad for the chance to relax around you.”
“Yes ma’am,” Trixie took Spitfire’s word for it.
At the edge of the runway, Spitfire halted, looking each way before crossing, and one souvenir from the week was Trixie doing the same automatically. That had been drummed into her, however nicely.
“Did you get what you were after from the experience?” Spitfire asked, still surveying everything except Trixie herself.
“I…” Trixie faltered. Spitfire had given her a chance when Trixie was sure she hadn’t wanted to, and things like that ought to be rewarded. But then, lying to Spitfire seemed unwise. Even if ending Trixie’s week with a ‘yep, told you so’ would be the final lump of granite in her stocking. “I made lots of notes. But I think I got more from the show last night than I did all the rest of the week put together.”
Truth with a positive spin would have to do.
“Yeah,” Spitfire said. Her voice sounded lower, and even more crackly than normal. “I was worried that might be the case.” She audibly took a big breath through her nose of the freezing air, then turned to Trixie for the first time. “The things you were trying to learn… I’m not even convinced they could be taught. Half of it’s instinctive reaction to being in that moment, and the rest is just a pony being who they are.”
Trixie didn’t really know what to say to that, so she kept quiet, and they walked more slowly alongside the runway.
“But,” Spitfire continued, “I’ve been thinking about it, because a pony coming here to learn that is really just as good a use of their work experience as coming here for flying, and perhaps I shouldn’t have been so dismissive when you first got here.”
Ok, I definitely don’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t an apology, but it was a hundred times closer than anything Trixie had expected to get.
“And I’ve had a few ideas,” Spitfire said. “A bit of analysis into how we do things on stage, and why, and what effect that has. Even if it’s not stuff I’d consciously considered much before.” She paused, and Trixie could just make out her eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses. “Wanna know a secret?”
Nodding eagerly, Trixie leaned in closer, wondering if she’d have to sign some official act swearing not to pass on classified information.
Spitfire’s voice dropped much lower. “I have a really cute smile.”
Some distant part of Trixie’s mind that was better at handling these things than the rest of her kept her legs moving, planting one hoof in front of the other, so at least stopping dead wouldn’t give away how flummoxed she was.
But Spitfire continued, perhaps not noticing Trixie being stuck on pause, or perhaps expecting it and pushing through. “And I look very pretty with my mane in bunches, too.”
The image was so far from the Spitfire walking beside her that Trixie would have called it impossible to imagine, except it clearly wasn’t, because she definitely was imagining it and it absolutely was adorable. Is she… is she flirting with me? That seems unlikely, but…
“Much more than that, though,” Spitfire said, “I really like my cute smile and my mane looking pretty up in bunches. Makes me feel light and feminine.” She smiled, and Trixie got the impression the smile was mostly to herself. “Can you guess how often I smile that smile or wear my mane that way? Absolutely never.” This time there was a wry edge to her voice again and an eyebrow that quirked at the slightest provocation, like sincerity wasn’t to be trusted. Back to how she’d always behaved in the past. “It doesn’t fit at all with the role I play here.”
Trixie frowned at the ground. “Sorry, I don’t think I quite understand what you mean?”
Chewing her lip, Spitfire was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking. “When an actress goes on stage in a play, she’s acting out a role, right? And if she were playing somepony very confident, then she could strut around the stage like Prince Blueblood, even if the actress is kind of shy in real life.” Spitfire gave a little shudder as she said Blueblood’s name, for reasons she didn’t elaborate on – especially strange as Spitfire was trudging through a thick layer of snow without a single shiver. “Because it’s not them being confident,” she finished up, “it’s the character they’re playing.”
“Ok, yeah, that makes sense,” Trixie said. She scratched her cheek. “But how does that help me?”
Spitfire shrugged. “It’s the same thing. You shouldn’t be being yourself on stage, but playing a character.”
She said it like it was a complete statement, with nothing further to add. Trixie found herself looking around while she tried to puzzle it out, like there must’ve been some clue she’d missed. “But it... it would be me, and the show would have my name on it. Just like you’re Spitfire on stage and not somepony else?”
“No,” Spitfire said, and there was a definite edge to it, “you’re not yourself on stage, you’re ‘The Great and Wondrous Trixie’ or something.” She lowered her sunglasses to peer over them, looking at Trixie eye to eye. “And she’s far more confident than you. She can hold the spotlight, she’s the one whose every word the audience hangs on. She’s someone they’d buy tickets to see.”
The idea left Trixie blinking. She wasn’t sure she got it, how she could be herself but not herself, but some part of her mind might have cottoned onto it, because she got a warmth in her stomach like maybe this might be the answer to all her problems, if only she could grasp it. Mostly, though, one thing captured her mind with the image it conjured up. “...‘The Great and Wondrous Trixie’ does have a very nice ring to it.”
Spitfire made a grin, the kind where she screwed up her nose and looked sheepish. “Yeah, but come to think of it you shouldn’t really say ‘wondrous,’ since ‘Wonderbolts’ already uses that one.” Then she waved the concern off with a hoof, “Just come up with another adjective in there. I don’t know, something that sounds powerful.”
“Hmmmm….” Ok, she could brainstorm that bit later. Right now there was a bigger issue. “But I’m not an actress, I wouldn’t know where to begin with playing a character.” She’d done the same year of drama at school as everypony else, but that had been years ago.
Spitfire gave the same unfussed, your-feelings-don’t-change-a-damn-thing shrug as before. “Learn.”
That brought Trixie up pretty short. More than anything, because there wasn’t any angle from which Spitfire wasn’t right. If that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes.
Then she heard that sentence back in her head, and, in a flash, she felt she understood Spitfire a whole lot better. Spitfire wouldn’t have given the problem any further consideration when handed that suggestion, because for her no further consideration was necessary. She wasn’t being deliberately obtuse as much as giving the best life advice she knew.
But all the same, Spitfire cocked her head to one side, looking up to the clouds. “I’d think maybe a costume would help. I certainly find it easier to yell in tryouts’ faces when wearing my drill sergeant’s uniform.”
An idle part of Trixie’s mind noted that Spitfire, more than most ponies, was usually seen in a uniform or a flight suit, and that today was the first time Trixie had seen her without either. She’d chosen the day it was snowing to go without.
Trixie gave her head a shake – a few snowflakes sprang loose and drifted away – and returned her focus to the pony trying to help her.
“You could get a top hat and tailcoat, maybe, that kind of thing,” Spitfire suggested, thankfully giving no sign she’d noticed Trixie being distracted.
That outfit would certainly leave no doubt who Trixie was or what she did. It might make her look like a stallion, though, if it wasn’t carefully tailored. “Or a cape!”
“Right, yeah.”
No doubt about it, a cape would definitely be included. As soon as she had the thought, she saw herself in her head, in the cape, and knew that was exactly the image she wanted to go for. No one could fail to take a magician seriously if she wore a cape! “So you’re saying that then it’d be more like dressing up as somepony else, someone who can do these great things without batting an eyelid?”
“Exactly,” Spitfire nodded, closing her eyes as she did so like a wise old sage.
“Sure, I can see that. And lots of ponies wear particular clothes for work, come to think of it.” Had she really been thinking she’d just go out on stage with no props at all? “A waiter puts on a suit, and I guess that helps him feel professional enough to keep his customer service smile on?”
Spitfire pursed her lips, raising a hoof and tilting it in a ‘yes and no’ gesture. “It goes a bit deeper than that.” She looked away as they passed one of the cadets shovelling the runway clear, who immediately stood straight and saluted. Spitfire returned it just as sharply. “Lots of ponies dress professionally for work, but you don’t often get the impression that’s how they’d choose to dress in their free time too. Just as most will act professionally in the workplace, but that doesn’t mean you expect them to be just as patient and supportive when they’re not on the clock.”
Just nodding, Trixie worried, might give the impression she wasn’t listening. But she certainly didn’t want to interrupt Spitfire mid-lecture, so she nodded anyway, but made sure she looked Spitfire in the eyes as she did so.
“And I do that as well, sure – the number of times a day I bite my tongue because chewing somepony out in front of the rest of the team wouldn’t be good for morale, that sort of thing – but that’s obviously me acting as I’m being paid to, and that’s not quite what I’m getting at.” She rubbed her chin with a wing as they walked, like she was scratching a non-existent beard as she thought. “What I mean is: professionalism is a mask ponies expect gets left at the door when you get home.”
That seemed a safe spot to agree aloud without risking cutting off Spitfire’s flow! “Ok, makes sense to me,” Trixie said, quick and unintrusive.
“Whereas what I’m talking about is who you appear as under that professional sheen. The pony others catch glimpses of through the cracks in it. That’s the real mask.”
An illusion within an illusion? And to think Trixie considered herself something of an illusionist! But she frowned, because the distinction between the two, not to mention why having both was necessary, still eluded her more than she’d like.
“Ok,” Spitfire said, “try thinking of it like this. Nopony is going to buy tickets to see somepony acting like a magician. What they want is somepony who actually is a magician. They want to believe. Have to, in fact, for this to work. What they need to see is you being a magician, who is acting like a professional. But in reality, both layers are acts, and you-the-pony are underneath. Getting there?”
“Mostly?” Trixie said, having been nodding throughout.
“Good. A Wonderbolt captain needs to behave professionally, but she has to be the kind of pony who will whip the squad into line when necessary. Not somepony who’ll tell them it’s fine, and that she knows they tried their best. That’s not the leader ponies will follow, or others will pay money to see fronting a show.”
Trixie smiled. “I see what you mean, yeah.” Come to think of it, it was probably the biggest smile she’d done all week. Which fit, really, since it was the first time she'd had the feeling she’d actually got something out of the opportunity. Seizing a moment of boldness off the back of that, she asked, “Would you really want to do that, deep down? Tell them it was ok as long as they did their best?” That seemed much harder to imagine than her wearing a fillyish manestyle.
Snorting, Spitfire rubbed the back of her neck. “Not really, no.” She grinned, blushing guiltily. “Equestrian naming magic being what it is, you’d better believe that if a pony called Prim Hemline becomes a fashion critic, and one called Fancy Pants becomes a figure of high society, then nopony called Spitfire is going to be gentle and mild-mannered.”
Trixie returned the grin. That would be a miserable thing to have to fake, to be stern with ponies you just wanted to be nice to.
“You’re right to bring it up,” Spitfire said, “and I’m very happy knowing that who I am and who I have to be are only 5 or 10% different.” She blew out a burst of air between pursed lips and slowly shook her head, looking at Trixie. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be nearly as pleasant for you.”
Just like that, something in Trixie went cold. “Wh-what do you mean?”
Having walked the length of the base, they arrived at the end of the plateau. After a cursory glance over the edge, Spitfire led Trixie over to a couple of boulders nearby, then brushed the snow from them both with her wings, sat down on one, and patted the other, offering it to Trixie.
She then took a further few moments to say anything, most likely collecting her thoughts. “Look, I can’t say I know you well in the slightest, but I work with Wonderbolts day in, day out. The long-time pros, the rookies, the tryouts. Believe me, I know a showoff when I see one. Most of the time, they’re the only ponies I get to see.” She paused, biting her lip and looking at Trixie intensely. “And that’s not you. This whole week you’ve been quiet and polite, never trying to be the centre of attention, and always thinking before you speak. And that’s… lovely.” She gave a soft, warm smile. “It’s meant it’s been no trouble having you here, and it’s just what you’d want to be for a future in most industries, or as the anchor of a family.”
Spitfire paused again, and Trixie said nothing, because there was obviously more to come.
With a sigh Trixie didn’t hear but could see clouding the freezing air, Spitfire said, “But you’re talking about putting on a one-mare show. Literally everything about that is a pony screaming ‘look at me!’ Every step around the stage is a demand for everypony’s unswerving attention to you exclusively. And as a magician, of all things… I mean, showboating is even more an intrinsic part of a stage magician’s job than it is of a flight display team’s. The very names they choose are ‘The Great’ this and ‘The Incredible’ that.”
She shook her head again. “So the character you choose is going to have to be so different to yourself that I’m worried how you’ll handle it.”
Sure, that might take a bit of getting used to, but it didn’t sound that big a deal? “It’s only for an hour or two a night, though. I’m sure if actresses can handle playing villains on stage for that long, then…” she turned up her hooves with a helpless smile.
But Spitfire’s smile was a lot more pained. “Unfortunately I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.” Then she folded her front hooves in her lap and continued more neutrally, laying the facts out for Trixie. “I’m lucky in that the group I front has been around for a lot longer than I have, so I’ve never had to build them up from scratch. I’ve never performed at the ramshackle venues everypony has to when starting out, or had an audience who didn’t know who we were or what our show entailed. As long as we don’t mess up, the crowd stays pretty happy. But every so often there’s some loudmouth in the front row who’s had too much cider, and she’ll shout a heckle when it’s just me on stage announcing the next routine.”
She took a big breath. Not necessarily the kind you’d call a deep breath, but still a big one, steadying herself before carrying on. “And being heckled on stage is like… it’s like suddenly having no fur. You’re exposed for everyone to see. Somepony shouted something that made you look stupid, and you’re just praying to Celestia ‘please, let me think of some witty comeback in the next half a second.’ Because if you don’t respond quickly with something better, they’ve won the exchange, and you look so much worse. And every single pony in the room knows it, and they’re all looking at you, and you can’t back away.”
“Some ponies can be so…” Trixie muttered, screwing her eyes shut.
“Yeah,” Spitfire agreed, with a humourless snort. “And you’ll get it much worse, since I had all those legs up I listed, leading an established act and everything.” She rubbed a hoof down her face, over her eyes and gripping her chin for a moment before dropping away. “So when somepony heckles you, that’s where you need all the bravado and swagger the character you’re on stage as can muster, so that you have command of the venue enough to put that pony back in their place. And that is the moment when all that confidence is most likely to completely desert you.”
Spitfire leaned forwards, looking Trixie right in the eyes. “You most need to stay in character when it’s hardest to. And, like you said, you’re not a trained actress. The only way, I think, you’re going to manage to be always in character when you really need to be is if you’re never not. To be so familiar with being that character that that’s what you’ll fall back on when all your wits desert you in that terrifying moment, because it’s the only thing you know.”
Breath catching, Trixie felt her eyes widen. “Always in character? You mean I’d have to pretty much give up being myself?”
With a weary nod, Spitfire said, “Not far off it, yeah. You’d have to come up with a character and then basically never stop playing them.” The pained smile flashed across her face again. “Maybe when you’re alone sometimes, but even then, the more time you spend being anypony but her, the less reliably she’ll come to you naturally in a crisis on stage.”
There was a thickness in Trixie’s throat as she asked, “Is that really worth it, just for the few times I get heckled?” But she didn’t have much hope of a positive answer. Spitfire wouldn’t have said it otherwise.
“Only you can decide that,” Spitfire said, like there was a heavy weight on her shoulders. “But ‘few’ I think might be seriously underestimating it. You’re a magician, you’re asking your audience to believe things their eyes and brains are telling them can’t possibly be true. That’s going to inspire pushback, and ponies will be more vocal about that the less confident you seem.”
She reached out a hoof and grasped Trixie’s own. Distantly, alarm bells went off in Trixie’s head, because if Spitfire were showing that much sympathy, then whatever she had to say next couldn’t be good.
“But even when nothing bad actually does happen…” Spitfire began, then trailed off.
She visibly braced herself, then started again. “The way you phrased it a week ago was that I walk around the stage like I own the place. Well, to expand on that a bit, most of the time someplace you personally own is your home. So I give off the impression I own the stage because I feel at home there. I’m at home there because I feel safe and secure in that environment, just like in my own house. Because I know that if anything bad happens, I can take care of it. Do you get what I mean?” She squeezed Trixie’s hoof. “Even if most of the time nothing goes wrong, just knowing I can handle it if it does will then shape the rest of my performance.”
Spitfire sighed again, and this time made no effort to hide it, even closing her eyes as she did so. “I sound like a theatre pony. That’s not something I ever wanted to be.” She shook her head, then shook herself. “Point is, even though it stems from being able to deal with a few rare instances of trouble, the confidence that that inspires is something everypony sees, at every show, the whole time I’m on stage. Or when they meet me after, see me in the street, whatever.”
The cold bit through her fur all over again as Spitfire released Trixie’s hoof, saying, “More than anything else, that’s where it all comes from.” She chuckled, though there wasn’t much mirth in it. “Ultimately, what is confidence but knowing nothing can go wrong?”
It was… maybe that was it. So simple, but perhaps profound. And with far-reaching implications. Confidence was believing that, and over-confidence was believing it when it didn’t line up with reality.
“And because of that,” Spitfire finished, “I think it’s essential for doing the things you want to do. Which makes it a big factor in deciding whether or not the sacrifice is worth it. For me, it’s the only one.”
Thousands of foals across Equestria had posters of Spitfire on their bedroom walls. They thought she was a hero, somepony with the determination to do anything she set her mind to. And to think, those ponies didn’t know the half of it!
Trixie smiled. It was a weak smile, and the wind stung at her watery eyes. It was hard advice, and she was smart enough to realise she hadn’t yet grasped anywhere near how hard. But it was solid, from a pony who knew from experience, and for the first time in a long while, Trixie’s path forward looked clearer. “Thank you.” The first challenge had always been knowing what to do, while the second was doing it. And although the second had just got harder, the first had always been more immediate, so having an end in sight for that felt a lot like progress. “I think I know what I have to do.”
For a long moment, Spitfire just looked at her. Then she said, “That’s good. But don’t let what I’d do influence what you do. It’s your decision to make.”
Solemnly, Trixie nodded. Objectively, she knew Spitfire had a point, but, right now, taking the advice of the pony who knew what they were talking about seemed obvious.
How much thought constituted enough, for something like this? When would she know she was ready to decide?
A bell rang out across the Academy grounds, muffled by the wind but still audible. “That’s 1400 hours,” Spitfire said. “The airship’s due in a few minutes.” She pushed herself off her rock onto her hooves. “Your mom’s aboard to pick you up for Hearth’s Warming, right?”
“Yeah, we’re going to have a cocoa while they turn the ship around,” Trixie said, also scrambling to her hooves, “then head home for presents, dinner and raising the flag.”
“Sounds nice.” Spitfire, Trixie noticed, after shaking the snowflakes free from her coat like a wet dog, then spent much longer giving her wings a more delicate check. “I still have to lead the Hurricane Ceremony,” she said while eyeing and brushing her feathers, “and wrap up a few things before I can leave the base, so I probably won’t make it to my mom’s place before dark.”
The important conversation was clearly over, but, while the transition was a little awkward, Trixie reminded herself that Spitfire probably didn’t get much practice ending conversations with anything other than a bark of ‘Dismissed!’
It seemed strange that even Wonderbolts went home for Hearth’s Warming with their moms. Trixie had pictured the senior fliers all donning their flight jackets and finding a bar together, holed up by the fireside drinking the blizzard away until the early hours of morning. Maybe they did that other years; going home to family seemed too normal, even if Trixie knew they were just ponies like everypony else.
“So I’ll take my leave now,” Spitfire said, apparently satisfied with her wing inspection. “I imagine you have quite a bit to think about, anyway.”
Only everything I am and everything I’ll ever be! “Yeah, you could say that,” Trixie said, staring at nothing in particular as it washed over her.
“I wish you nothing but success,” Spitfire said. There was a slight formality to the phrasing, like it was some ancient pegasus blessing for those departing on some great, challenging undertaking. But, more than that, she sounded absolutely sincere.
“I’d give you a hug,” she said more casually, “but Wonderbolt captains don’t do that. More importantly, Spitfire doesn’t do that.” Then she leaned closer and whispered, “I might, but that’s another matter entirely.”
Though the image of Spitfire hugging her didn’t seem to fit at all, it did push Trixie in the right direction and make her realise the appropriate thing for her to do was salute Spitfire, as she’d seen Wonderbolts do all over the Academy.
Just as she lifted her front hoof, Spitfire stepped closer and grasped both Trixie's shoulders, drawing eye to eye with her only a few hoofwidths away. “Love what you do, and they’ll see it,” Spitfire said, in that voice nopony argued with. Then she released one shoulder and firmly shook Trixie’s hoof. “End on a high note. Never outstay your welcome. And always leave them wanting more.” Spitfire released Trixie’s hoof and took a step back, but held her stare. “Good luck, kid.”
Then she turned away and leapt into the air, in moments reduced to a burning yellow blur gliding over a shining sea of white beneath dark clouds. Trixie turned her gaze out beyond the edge of the mesa, deep in thought while watching for the airship. And her life was never the same again.