Background Currents

by Artrageous

Rating: teen
Tags: Romance, Original Character, Trixie, Comedy, Adventure, Derpy Hooves, Tragedy, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 12807

A retired Wonderbolt is caught up in a series of murders that span Equestria.

Artrageous, a retired Wonderbolt, is aimless and attempting to find meaning again in his life. He is nudged in a direction, then caught up in the strong undertow of a larger menace spreading across Equestria. He and his new friends find themselves drawn in, but only on the periphery as the mane 6 and the princesses take charge of the issue. Reluctant to let everything just drop and be handled by others, they struggle to provide relevant assistance while being backstage to the events.

Incorporates some personalities and plots inspired by events on the Equestrian Dawn mush.

Published 2011-09-28 20:11:24 UTC
Last updated 2011-10-21 16:13:21 UTC

Alone at Night

Once upon a time in the land of Equestria...

No, thought Artrageous, that’s not how memoires started. He hadn’t read many books, and the ones he had were mostly written by other fliers. At least, he assumed they were, as he wasn’t clear on the difference between biographies and autobiographies. Some read better than others, and those were the ones where the pony had help. Pegasai weren’t, as a breed, very introspective. The athletic ones in particular were especially unfamiliar with the territory of the soul and the fabric of their motivations. It took insight to draw things out and set them down, and this usually came from some other pony.

Art flapped his wings and let his thoughts wander. In any case, he wasn’t in a position to write anything down. It was night and he was flying with no real purpose or direction, finding the thermals and air currents and stretching out the time between flaps. This was when he thought the best, when most of him was occupied and calmed by the exertion of staying in the air. It hadn’t always been like this, but a lot can change in a couple years.

A lot can change in a couple seconds too, he thought. No, best not to go there, don’t start on a down note. How am I ever going to write all this down? I hate holding a quill in my mouth. I need a unicorn to help me out. I need a unicorn strapped to the back of a pegasus so I can talk to her while I’m flying. I wonder if she’ll be able to write in the wind. A windshield maybe, or she could sit on top of a tower and I could fly around and around while talking.

Her. Artrageous didn’t have a specific unicorn in mind, but when he visualized an assistant she was naturally a mare. Possibly because he believed mares were more attentive to detail, but more likely because he’d have the natural stallion urge to challenge another one and this would result in exaggerating his deeds.

Not that they’d need much. I’m pretty fantastic. I graduated with honours from flight school, won the advanced aerodynamics competition, and became Right Winglead of the Wonderbolts. A lot to be proud of, Arty, a lot to be proud of now that you’re... retired. Let’s go with retired.

There was a sinking feeling inside him that was not associated with air currents: retired, over the hump, put out to pasture, or as is the case for pegasai, left to blow away in the wind. All his best days were behind him so he should be planning on entertaining young colts and fillies with his exploits, except the rigors of work and the need to travel with the Wonderbolts had prevented him from making any lasting ties with anypony outside the group. What’s more, his former squad-mates didn’t speak to him after the … retirement.

So when he imagined somepony beside him, it was naturally going to be a female, because he was tired of flying alone in all senses of the meaning.

Perhaps I should write a pop-up book, Artrageous thought bitterly, everything seems so small and unimportant now. He knew they stopped talking about him years ago, and he was glad. Some young filly had caught the fickle and flighty attention of the pegasai sports-fans: Rainboom something. Arty wasn’t sure, but another weight seemed to add to his back and his left wing started to ache as he thought about spotlight which had most assuredly moved on.

He did still want it: the idolization, the magnificence, the sense of power of being on top, of being the best of the best, being part of a team. Meaning something. He was unaware how deep some of these feelings led, but was acutely sensitive to the pain caused when they pulled out.

Below him, a lake passed by, its glossy surface reflecting the night sky and the moon, full and bright. Scarred by recent events a few months ago, he thought, or healed. The Mare in the Moon is gone; she now lives in Canterlot. I could go speak with her, but what would I say? Did you catch any of my performances while you were on the moon? How does it feel now that ponies no longer look up to you? Can you tell me how you handle it? I’d like to know.

The moon in the lake didn’t respond, nor did the stars. Arty circled, dropping lower and turning on his side so he could watch the heavens above move with the heavens below. If he wall-eyed his vision just right, the dark silhouette of the trees and land blurred into insignificance and vanished. It felt like flying in space.

That’s what I want to do, he thought, just fly, fly away from it all, away from the friends that no longer talk to me, from the events that haunt me, from the nothingness. Change is motion, and so motion is change, and that was the impulse that brought him out every day and night to keep flying, because he could, because as long as he was in the air all the feelings he associated with the ground were kept at bay. He imagined them as dark, ropey tentacles of oil, reaching up and enveloping him, pulling him down, and drowning him in the dirt.

You got to work on your metaphors there, Arty, he thought. The water was coming closer and he saw himself silhouetted in the reflection of the moon. Even on a bright day, he was mostly a dark presence. His coat wasn’t black, but it was such a dark hue of a blue-purple it might as well have been. He was glad to see his mane and tail showed up as pale accompanying wisps. On most ponies, the Wonderbolt flightsuit increased their presence, even discounting all gravitas associated with the uniform. Its colouration helped them stand out, but in his case it muted his, adding a lightness and contrast that softened his presence so he didn’t stick out so horrendously. Not that he was wearing it now, or every would again, but he missed it again on an artistic level. Everypony knows what they say about black ponies.

I need to get back, he thought. The chill that grabbed him at the moment made him believe he’d fallen into the lake. Home held so little for him that the prospect of returning brought so much dread? That’s it, he thought, I’m leaving. The decision was impulsive, but not unexpected, being the culmination and expression of feelings that had been dogging him for months, waiting for the right moment, the acceptance that nothing was left, and it was time to move on. It was time.

Arty flew back home. The words and plans for his memories fell out of his head to be replaced with more immediate, achievable tasks. There were things to pack up, though not many as pegasai tend to live light, and his former travelling requirements had stripped a lot out of his life. The items which remained were all deeply significant to him. He once hoped they’d be placed in an exhibit about him in a Hall of Fame, but that was now also dashed. Just about every one of his possessions could have been. No one could look upon the collection and call it junk; any pony would have been proud to own the trophies or photos. Arty wished he felt better about them and that they didn’t seem so small.

His cloud could be kicked apart. His mail, assuming he was going to get some, would have to be forwarded. He should speak to a mailpony about that. He’d need to rent a cart. There was no point in getting a moving company as he didn’t have that much. Then there would be goodbyes to acquaintances he’d never warmed up to and who hadn’t reciprocated, as well as to the bar where he ate fried mushroom caps and peppers. No sense saying goodbye to the bartender as there seemed to be a new one every other week. He’d been going there every week for months, and each time still felt like the first time. Perhaps the cook was the same, the fried food had maintained its excellent quality all throughout, but Arty had never met her. In a way the whole town was like that, like some metaphysical, adult version of detention. No pony wanted to be here, and no pony stayed long, if they had the option, and in the mean time they kept to themselves. So Arty had never felt a need to speak to the cook, compliment her on her efforts. Or him, he supposed, could have been a colt cooking.

“Always thinking about the mares,” he said to himself as his plans finalized. Very few ponies to say goodbye to, very few ties to cut, and then he could turn his back on this place, fly somewhere else where it didn’t hurt so much to be.

His wings ached as he closed on his home. Some pains would follow. He climbed into his bed, struggled into a comfortable position on his front. As he closed his eyes, he thought, That’s it then, first thing in the afternoon, soon as I wake up, I’m getting out of here. I’ll go be somepony else, somewhere else. So, goodbye Broke Mountain, I never wanted to come here and I won’t be sorry to leave.

* * * * * *

The streets of Fillydelphia were cruel and mean. They had messages carved in their bricks: ‘Have a nice day!’ and ‘Think of Others!’ which only reinforced the gloom. Often, litter wasn’t picked up for days. Many ponies were unwashed and unfocused, wandering aimlessly and looking for their next hit of giggle grass or waiting for the salt lick bars to open up. It was a place where ponies rarely smiled, didn’t hug or dance, and dangerous to be in a dark alley at night. Somepony might be rude, wielding sharp words that could cut and twist in. There were only five shelters, with one social worker per three ponies. Only once or twice a night might offers of a meal and warm place to sleep be made. It was a long time between the guard patrols, at least an hour! It was a hard life, for hard ponies, and the urban blight had spread to cover almost an entire city block. The rest of the city was clean, pleasant and safe. Everypony knew not to go near the downtown core at night, unless they had a really good reason, like spreading kindness.

“Champagne Majestic, you doing all right?” It was the second time Officer Smiley had come around that night.

“I’m fine officer, the cold don’t bother me none. I’ve got my sleeping mat and a blanket, the sky is clear and the stars are nice. I think I’ll stay out a spell.”

“There’s a warm stable waiting for you, we can go there right now, you don’t have to be alone. The soup is still hot. They’ve got dumplings.”

“Thank you kindly, but I’m full up and not feeling fit to be around others. Then there’s them rules they got. I don’t got a hankering for following rules tonight.”

“Please Champagne, it would make me feel better knowing you were inside.”

“Tell you what Smiley, you let me sleep this night through, no more interruptions, and come early tomorrow evening and I’ll go with you.”

“Champagne, you said that last night. You know I don’t like feeling you’re lying to me.”

“Weren’t lying then! Ain’t lying now. You showed up too late is all. I got looking at the stars and changed my mind, decided I’d keep them company tonight. Show up before sundown tomorrow and I’ll go with you.”

“Well, all right Champagne,” Officer Smiley’s hooves clopped on the pavement as walked off, “I take that as a promise. Sleep well.”

Champagne snorted and snuggled deeper under his blankets. He’d worked the wine county harvest many a year, this wasn’t much different than sleeping out during a long harvest. City ponies were so delicate. He was happily drifting off when sharp sounds pulled him away. His first thought was Smiley was returning, but it wasn’t the sound of shoes on brick. It was metal... on metal, and ringing in an oddly attractive way.

He could see shadows cast on a building at the end of the street. They made no sense. There was a faint glow of magic, that was the source of the shadows, so at least one unicorn was involved. Possibly some sort of impromptu, late night theater? Drawing closer to the source, he rounded the gate to a construction lot.

What he saw left him paralyzed in fear. He stood, eyes wide, mouth open, unable to move, staring at the nightmarish scene before him. The macabre spectacle played out. A pony fell, dismembered, to the ground. Champagne saw a flash, felt stinging pains at points all over his body. He turned and he ran. He didn’t get as far as his sleeping roll.

An hour later, Officer Smiley bent his promise to leave Champagne Majestic undisturbed, and quietly checked on him. He never felt the same again.

* * * * * *

Leaving Broke Mountain

Leaving was a little harder than anticipated, Arty discovered he had to speak to a counselling officer, which was one more pony he didn’t want to talk to. It was an uncomfortable walk to find her in the administration building, which despite a lot of long flowing ramps, and even a couple balconies between levels that a pegasus could jump across, somehow impressed a certain amount of formality. Both the walk and the building said, you are here to see official people on official business and you will not be silly.

Not that Artrageous was prone to being silly. He was very serious, for a pegasus, that qualifier being an important point. He checked himself in a reflection off a pillar. How am I looking? I know I look fantastic, but am I still looking as fantastic as I could be? Mane, braids look good. Coat, yup, tail? Fine. Teeth. Yes, I look great when I smile. Okay, let’s stun this ponycrat with my sheer fantasticness and get the flock outta here.

He’d never admit to being nervous, but apparently having to check in now and then was going to be a staple of his new life, and it was a tether he didn’t want. It was also, the third door on the right at the top of the second balcony past the waterfall, which he’d finally found.

Artrageous nosed open the door and pushed inside, “Hello, are you expecting me? I’m Artrageous.” The back of the room was a giant bay window he could have flown in with everything fully extended, and his eyes closed. Why they simply hadn’t painted a number on the outside of the building to let him do so, he couldn’t imagine. Well, some ponies can’t fly, came the counter-thought.

Between freedom and the door was a desk, in front of which were a few pillows and a bench, behind which was seated a mare in medical scrubs. She had a pale green coat, robin-shell hair, and pretty eyes. She was an earth pony, with a nice smile, and a desk full of well chewed pens. Most doctors were unicorns, at least, most of the ones Arty had met were, and he knew it was a study heavy profession with a lot of writing. He briefly wondered how skilled an earth pony would have to be with her mouth to keep up, then quickly put that thought out of his mind. He sat quickly.

The rest of the room was strangely empty, there was a single diploma on the wall, but little signs of personalization. The doctor read from the folder in front of her for a few moments, then looked up.

“Yes, I had just a few questions then you’ll be cleared to go. Everything is working correctly?” She asked, keeping a very steady gaze locked on his eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to be so formal, Artrageous, this isn’t a court martial. I just need to know how you’re doing, you haven’t had any thoughts about hurting yourself, have you?”

The answer to this is always no, regardless of what the real answer is. Beyond the desk, beyond the window was blue sky, and while he could fly away anytime some pony, some where, would find a loose thread and pull it all the way back to him so he might as well get it all wrapped up neatly now, so nopony would worry.

“I’m fine, yes, I don’t need any more pain than I currently have. I haven’t been thinking of hurting myself.”

“Have you been feeling suicidal?”

Another trap question, where the answer is always no. Still, Arty could hardly sing a song about sunny skies forever, “I’ll admit to feeling severely disillusioned with how things have transpired, but I’m looking forward to moving on.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“No!” That was a bit too harsh, that would set off warning flags, that would interrupt her pleasant trip through her checklist. Arty rushed to qualify, closing his eyes, “I mean, no sir. I’ve talked, and talked, and talked until I’m even more blue in the face, and I don’t want to relive it again. I’ve said all I can about it, I know what I did wrong, the past is the past and I can’t change it, and I assure you it will never happen again.” He flared his wings, then folded them back against his sides, “It is what it is, and I accept the consequences, I’m just embarrassed talking about it now.”

“Okay,” she stared at him for a long while. Artrageous took a deep breath to relax, shaking to relax some of the tension through his back, and smiled. “Have you thought where you’ll be going?”

Away, thought Arty, “No,’ is what he said. This prompted a frown, she wanted to see he had a plan, presumably, and no medical officer, no matter how optimistic, was going to release an estranged pony who had no ties and no where to go. It was important to have something, Arty improvised, “I... thought about going to Manehatten, big place, I’ve got a couple contacts there. I was thinking of writing a book. Or Fillydelphia, I hear it’s nice. That’s the good thing about writing, you can do it anywhere.” Once you master the tongue-tango that is needed for manipulating a pen, that is.

“Have you thought about Ponyville?”

Ponyville? He hadn’t thought of the moon either. Oh wait, he had, last night, so Ponyville was even further from his awareness, “Um... no. What’s in Ponyville?”

“Well, I am, for one,” She smiled and turned her head in a way that made him blush. That familiar look, she was a fan! It was all there in his file, of course, and some were more forgiving than others. She was old enough, she’d probably seen him perform in his prime, maybe even had a word during the blur of the meet-and-greets. Some fillies, especially those devoted to a difficult profession, would nurse a crush into a full blow love affair even in the absence of any contact. Then, when a pony stepped out of the poster, they’d latch on. It was... something.

“Oh, I’m not interested in a relationship,” she said, after he’d gotten the wrong idea. “I live there normally, I’m out here as part of the medical exchange. Anyhow, Ponyville is nice and... well I wouldn’t say quiet, there is always something going on, but it isn’t stressful. You need to check in with someone every two weeks, and I wouldn’t be comfortable releasing you to anywhere else, since you didn’t have a really concrete plan.”

And that was it. She wanted him there, but didn’t want him there, and he was stuck to this mare’s whim. His legs clenched, matching the stiffness in his jaw, breathing was becoming shallow again, the room narrowing into a tunnel where all he could see was... sky.

And he exhaled, “Sure, it sounds like a nice place to vacation. I can probably find a few things around town to do while I make bigger plans. I’ll drop in, we can have lunch, maybe dinner.” Hey, it never hurt to try, “So where is this Ponyville? I wanted to get moving today.”

“It’s south of Canterlot, a couple hours journey. Look for the farmlands and apple orchards. If you reach the Everfree Forest, you’ve gone too far.”

The Everfree Forest? That would be a good place for a pony that wanted to loose himself, “Ponyville it is then. I’ll look you up. I’ll have a cloud set up by the time you get back.”

“Allright Artrageous, you’re cleared for take off.” She grinned at him, “and keep focusing on the future. Things will get better.”

He nodded, like he was digesting sound advice, but he had heard these platitudes before. Some things never get better, some things are never forgiven, and as much as he wanted to pretend, and ignore, like scars, your past is with you for the rest of your life. “Thanks, I will.” He got up and walked through the door.

“Fly safe Arty,” she called as he left.

“Always do,” he waved his left wing, then winced as it banged the door-frame. A bad omen, “I wasn’t flying then!” He laughed it off as he disappeared down the hall. Now to see a pony about a cart.

* * * * * *

Artrageous didn’t leave that day. His departure was late in the morning following. That’s the beauty of having no specific plan, things can be allowed to slip. Slipping too much would be a problem, but one more day wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t as if he was expected, and by the time he had finished packing the cart it was late into the night. The mare-less moon was watching him, and it would be foolish to depart at night. Equally foolish to kick apart his cloud when he needed a bed.

So, he slept till morning, then a little later, because there was no sense starting out tired. Then it was time, he slipped out of his house and left all the doors and windows open. Some other pony might find it useful, and if not it would eventually drift off and break up, raining down a bunch of pens and change he misplaced and forgotten. Just to be clear, he wrote ‘Take Me’ at the front door. It would last a day before the cloudstuff shifted it into obscurity, or transformed it to something else. With his luck, it would be ‘Go away’.

Arty gave his cart a pre-flight inspection. It was a closed in affair which would save him having to protect the contents from the weather. It had two wheels and a simple harness, and wasn’t large enough to sleep in, not with his things. Like sleeping in a bathtub or closet, the prospect of which seemed somehow even more lower class than stretching out on a cloud or under a bridge. Arty hadn’t thought his nighttime arrangements through fully, but a pegasus always has a consideration for good places to take a nap processing in the back of their mind. Just in case one gets suddenly tired and it’s real important to lie down.

He slipped into the harness, twisted and shook it into a comfortable position and tightened the straps with his teeth. The weight settled on his shoulders and collarbone, just in front of his wings. He pulled, the cart rolled easily and he started flying with it.

Okay, turns are going to be slow and wide, and it’ll take a lot longer to slow down and stop, he thought, fly like you’re someone’s grandpa. He took one last look at his cloud, at the town below, nestled in the crags and steeps of the mountain and flew on. “Bye,” he said, adding, “thanks,” a moment later. For nothing, wasn’t voiced, but came very close to being.

He flew, he ran, he pulled the cart. He didn’t have a lot to think about, so he tried to remember why this wasn’t much harder than pulling it along the ground. It certainly wasn’t the equivalent of a dead lift, straight up. The steeper the angle of attack, the harder it was, just like climbing a hill. Well, Magic, was the answer, but there was still a logic behind it, especially pegasus magic which concentrated on atmospheric manipulation. Ah, he remembered, that particular physics course had interested him because it related to his cutie-mark. A pegasus can manipulate cloud-stuff, allow it to bear the weight of itself or objects, and carts work because a pegasus is effectively laying down an invisible contrail that the cart is following on. It still has to be pulled, which is why it’s a similar effort as doing so on the ground, and why the wheels turn, but the road is smoother.

It’s also possible to leave the cart for a while, so the pegasus doesn’t have to be in constant contact. This generally isn’t a good idea, because there is no set time for the support to remain. It usually lasts as long as the pegasus is thinking about it, and then a little while longer. Invariably, if attention goes elsewhere then suddenly snaps back with the thought ‘I’ve left a cart hanging’, that’s when it falls. It meant continually worrying about where you parked and whether the timer was running out. For a breed as easily distracted as the pegasai are, it’s a bit of a cruel joke, but it keeps the skies clear.

In any case, flying is both physical exertion and continual spell-casting, the limits of which are roughly the same and vary from pegasus to pegasus. As a former Wonderbolt, Artrageous had practiced and pushed his and was quite aware of far his current limits had slipped from his former glory days. If the wall wasn’t physical exhaustion, it manifested as a sudden urge to sleep. In actuality it was the magic reserves running low, and it unfairly gave the pegasai a reputation of being lazy, but it was a protective instinct to ensure they allowed their magic batteries a chance to recharge and still maintain their active spells. Only a really old or sick pegasus had their magic cut out mid-air. Or a really foolish one, thought Artrageous. He knew how to push right up to the point the magic ended, and all the warning signs before that brink.

It was a good day, the skies were clear and there was an intermittent breeze. Arty would wait for that gust and use it to soar himself and the cart higher. The road on the ground analogy wasn’t strictly true, a road on water could apply equally well, because there were some techniques to saving effort and riding a thermal was one. Once he’d gained altitude and the air stilled again, he would fly on a slight downslope, gliding. Gliding was much easier on his wings. Too much flapping and his left would start to stiffen. So he flew, or sailed, or surfed in the sky with his cart in an undulating path. It was great to be able to see so far, the haze settling on mountains, the fields and tended forests slipping by below, the way the sun would sparkle and light up a river when he reached just the right point.

This was free, this was as good as it gets, and worries can’t fly, or at least, can’t fly fast. Artrageous was happy.

* * * * * *

Donut and Trixie

Donut Steel. His job was sitting behind a police desk and getting his flank chewed off by the mare of Fillydelphia. There were other components to it, but that seemed the main one.

He was also the bearer of a very unfortunate name and cutie-mark. He hadn’t liked his childhood name either, Doughy, it made him sound like a big squishy pile of unbaked bread. There’s the chance when one’s cutie-mark comes in, to take a better name. After all, it’s not as if any parent knew exactly what their foal was going to get when it was born, although yes, they were bakers and had hopes. Sadly, a lot of those names sounded like desert dishes or specialized performers. The problem being that the new name wasn’t so much chosen as applied by mutual frienemies who had no sympathies for the future.

Also, Donut Steel hated ‘cutie-mark’. He would have preferred the term be flank-flag, or butt-brand, or ass-pass, something. Something else, without the ‘cutie’. Donut felt there was nothing cute about himself, there should be nothing cute about himself, but Princess Celestia decreed it was to be called a cutie-mark, and that was that. It was difficult enough getting your way with a headstrong mare that was forty, never mind one with a couple millenia of practical stubbornness, and the powers of the galaxy at her disposal, that was hard enough to give her sister a thousand year time out on another planet. No, better to be metaphorically gelded than actually. If she wanted it to be called a cutie-mark, it would be called a cutie-mark, and no stallion was going to challenge that. Some could be real thick, but they weren’t that stupid. Steel still wished it was something else. At least he wasn’t pink.

The mayor was, and she had teleported into his office for the aforementioned rump roast.

“You have have half of the downtown core completely screened off. What exactly is going on Donut?”

“Miss Mayor, you don’t want to know.”

“I need to know Donut! The Celebration of Life Parade has a route right through your tent city. They have to be cleared, or I need a good reason for re-routing.”

“I can’t tell you, Miss mayor.” The other part of his job was keeping information from ponies, details that would keep them up at night, make their stomachs gurgle and burn. He deployed his euphamisms, “It’s one of those inevitable, unfortunate, conclusive aspects of existence. We’re cleaning the specifics up as fast as we can.”

She turned a pale pink. Ponies were aware of mortality, in part that’s what the parade was about, but most didn’t like to think about it. Births were celebrated, as were the memories of those who had passed on, but the details of the transition at the end of life, those were best just pushed under the carpet.

“I’ll... I’ll say everything needed a new coat of paint, and it just couldn’t be finished in time.”

“Don’t say that, ponies will want to pitch in and help. Although, that’s not a bad idea. We can rush some base coats down, you can make the announcement and then they can jump in. It has to be painted anyhow.”

“It was that... extensive?”

“Yes.”

She blanched even further. Nodded, and with a blinding flash and an ear-ringing pop she teleported out.

Donut Steel looked at the folder on his disk, it had him taken three attempts to read it, with long breaks in between, and was the reason his lunch felt like phosphor inside him. Officer Smiley had been the lead investigator, but there was no way Steel was leaving him in charge. He had ordered that broken pony to immediately take a week in the country, or a month. Steel needed him in a week, that pony deserved a month for what he’d seen.

He didn’t know there were four other folders just like it in Steel’s desk. Three were from out of town, a hunch that paid off in ways Donut wished it hadn’t when the files came in response to his circumspect requests. The fourth was from a month ago, in the city suburbs, and had been handled by the only pony Donut had met who could look at these things and keep a lunch down.

This had Special Division written all over it. Donut leaned on his inter-comm, “Somepony find Flare Star.”

* * * * * *

Artrageous was tired. He’d been flying for several hours now. His coat had gone slick with sweat, baked dry in the sun, and gone slick again. He could smell himself, even with a headwind. A good strong stallion scent, nothing wrong with that, he thought, mares will flock. His mane was feeling unpleasantly oily, his tail, dusty. Somehow he had found dirt in the sky and it was clinging to him just as if he’d been pulling this cart along a track. He was uncomfortably hot, and wet, under his tail and in his foreleg pits. Things were beginning to chafe. The harness pulled uncomfortably at his shoulders, it was sweat-slick beneath it and he wondered if he should have used a blanket as a pad. His wings were holding up, but there were strange pops and clacks transmitting themselves through his bones.

He looked around for a good cloud to rest on. There weren’t any. There were, at most, a few wispy altostratus, but they were too high and thin to be practical. He gazed down at the ground, looking for a good landing place. He might as well set down the cart and sleep on top of it.

There was a brighly coloured dot moving along an earth pony track. He lowered his head for a closer view, then balked as the cart accelerated on the slope, pushing him. Too steep! He reminded himself, I can’t fly like it’s just me. That was warning enough, he leveled out, it was time to put down. When you slip behind the power curve and start making mistakes, it’s time to stop flying for a spell.

He was rapidly moving away from the dot, whatever it was. At his current height, it was too large to be a pony. Some kind of farm wagon, perhaps, but it shouldn’t be garish. He spared another look to gauge its direction. Same as mine, he determined. He wouldn’t be able to land exactly beside it, but he could get close and wait for it to catch up. He’d have someone to talk to, and might even ask for directions.

Artrageous took the cart down as steeply as he dared, backwinging the whole way while it pressed on his shoulders. He was glad he’d gotten the balance right, otherwise there would be the danger of it fishtailing and flipping around in front of him. As it was, he was extra cautious in maintaining a smooth, straight path that parallelled the track on the ground. Finally his hooves touched ground, and the wheels thumped down right after. A quick run, that slowed to a trot, then a walk, and he was ready to pull over and wait.

He did. He unhitched himself, and sprawled across the top of his cart like a cat in a sunny spot. He let his muscles stretch, his wings hang, that felt good.

Something sparkled on the ground. A coin. He lept down to examine it. It was a bit. Well that’s good luck, he thought, as he picked it up and returned to his perch. He started flipping it, knocking it in the air with his hoof, catching it on the white line, and slapping it on his fore fetlock.

Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads.

Hmmm.

Heads. Heads.

This continued for a while. Art felt that it was important to look as casual as possible when the other traveller arrived, and that meant he should keep flipping the coin even if no pony was watching. Not that he was posing, exactly, but if he just sat there and did nothing he’d start to think. He didn’t want to do that, he’d get wound up and seem like some creepy stalker forest pony. Best to concentrate on flipping the coin.

It wasn’t long before the other wagon rumbled into view, about a thousand coinflips or so. It was pulled by a unicorn mare. She was a light blue with an even paler mane and tail. He looked for the cutie-mark, hers was a wand with some sort of swirl. She was also as dirty, dusty and tired looking as Arty felt. He wished now he’d taken a moment to preen. There was a name printed in bold letters across the side of her wagon. She was some kind of performer.

“Hello there,” Artrageous called out, flipping his coin, “what kind of show would you give me for this?”

She eyed it, “The Great and Powerful Trixie is not a bit player, so nothing.”

“Really? It’s a magical coin,” flip, “It keeps coming up heads, don’t you think that is significant?”

“It’s nothing to write home about,” she said, watching him flip it again, but she still asked, “what is it this time?”

“Heads.”

“Again.”

Flip, “heads.”

“Give it here, what does a dirty pegasus know about magic?”

Arty spun the coin down at her. It landed in the dirt. Her horn glowed, she levitated it up, turning it in front of her face and examining it.

“You foal! It’s heads on both sides! It’s a new one with both Princesses, how dumb a pegasus are you?”

Arty decided he wasn’t going to tell her it was always coming up Luna. “You keep it, maybe it will bring you luck. So what do you do?”

“It’s ‘So what does the Great and Powerful Trixie do?’ and the answer is simple. Anything you can do, I can do better!”

“Great! Make me a cup of tea!”

That... felt interesting. Fortunately it didn’t last long. The flash of her horn was still lingering on his eyes as the feeling faded.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie has no time for this nonsense. You smell, and she has a long way to go. Good day.” She leaned into her harness and strained to get her wagon moving again. Her horn glowed, adding an arcane push to the wheels and setting her in motion.

“Hey, Trixie, I’m sorry. I’ve been travelling all day and you’re the first pony I’ve spoken to. I wanted to know if anything was around, a place to stay the night.”

“Great and Powerful Trixie.”

“Great and Powerful Trixie, then, are there any inns on this road, where does it go?”

“It goes to Ypslanti, then Hoofington, and there are not any inns you can reach tonight. There are farms, but the earth ponies here are uncooth and do not appreciate the Great and Powerful Trixie’s magic, they expect a show and for her to pay for lodgings. In your case, they have daughters, I doubt you could pay enough.”

That sounded like a joke at his expense, or theirs, and an insult at both. This was rapidly getting tiring. He felt the temptation to whip out his credentials, but she wasn’t the sort of mare that would be impressed, he knew that. Parading around as an ex-Wonderbolt to get some respect, that’s the picture of insecure. Instead, he sighed, “Look, enough already. I thought maybe you’d like some company, to talk about yourself, but if you’re happy on your own, be alone. I don’t need to waste my time pretending to be nice. I don’t need anypony doing me favours.” A little more bitterness than Arty intended slipped into his voice, and something else.

Trixie stopped her wagon, she was out of sight now, the back end of it blocking view of her. She was quiet for a moment, there was just the sound of her tail wisking. Something must have resonated with her, for she called out, “The Great and Powerful Trixie accepts your challenge, she can pretend to be nice better than you. You may travel with her.”

“And listen to her talk about herself?” He had to ask, maybe that was it.

“Yes. The Great and Powerful Trixie is not doing you any favours.”

All right, there was a sense of humour in there. He laughed and hopped down to get into his harness, and set his cart in motion.

“Lay some story on my Trixie.”

“Great and Powerful,” she corrected.

Okay, “Oh, Great and Powerful Trixie, please tell me about yourself, this road is so long.”

“Well Dark Pegasus, I once saved...”

I probably should introduce myself, Arty thought, once she stops talking. At least that’s better than ‘Stinky’.

A dinner with Trixie

By the time they stopped for camp, Artrageous knew every single one of Trixie’s magic tricks. He hadn’t seen them, for that he’d have to pay, but she talked about them, at length and in great detail. The shared journey did indeed make the travel easier, and shorter. Arty was free to mostly zone out and mostly only had to watch for moments of significant pause where he was expected to say, “Oh, yes, really? -or- and then what happened?” Trixie, ahem, the Great and Powerful Trixie, wasn’t the sort of conversationalist who expected a lot of reciprocation. She mostly wanted to hear her own voice, and didn’t like interruptions. Arty was glad, the mares you have to pay close attention to were the worst.

Setting camp was mostly pulling over to the side of the road and discovering that Trixie slept in her wagon, so she was taken care of, and no you’re not invited inside, so figure out your own arrangements and build a fire while you’re at it.

Arty had thought of flying on, he’d been rested enough hours ago to do so, but there was still the tacit competition of being ‘nice’ to each other, which both were struggling with. Also, though Arty was loathe to admit it, he wanted somepony around, and one he didn’t care about offending might be the best choice on a difficult journey. He had been practicing hard, with his flying, and regular pony training. Despite this, he still felt stiff through his whole body. Pulling a cart all day long was not the same as several hours of airsprints and stunts. He was in no small way impressed with Trixie, she’d pulled her own wagon, that much could be said, even if she used magic. That unicorn wasn’t as delicate as she looked.

He dragged some sticks and branches out of the forest, stamped them into kindling and made a pile. It would burn, it was big enough to last a while. There were a few dead trees that were both rotten enough to easily break up, and not so far gone they turned into dust. He had nothing to start a fire with, so he’d need Trixie.

Klok, klok, klok! He banged on the front of her wagon, “Oh Great and Powerful one. I need you to light the fire.” The top of her door slammed open and she stuck her head.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is not going to waste her magic on parlour tricks. Light it yourself. How were you planning to cook your food?”

She looked at him like he had some; he looked at her like she was crazy. At this point, they both became aware of the flaw in his travel plans. Fortunately, Arty didn’t have to bother with recriminating himself, Trixie took care of that for him.

“You didn’t bring any food? What were you planning on eating, how did you get so big and so old without learning the basics of taking care of yourself? Are you crazy? The Great and Powerful Trixie has never seen a pony so useless before, and you still smell.” She slammed her door shut.

Thanks, thought Art. “Thanks.” He said, with his forehead tightening and mouth tasting like bile. I made a mistake in planning, he justified to himself. The Wonderbolts had a whole collection of support staff, to make arrangements, handle baths and brushing, accommodations, schedule and food. Even when the show wasn’t travelling, he had a filly hanging off every hoof each night, and his bits were no good in that town. He could get a free meal for a photograph and a signature. Food, was something he never thought about. You got hungry, you went out, and somepony gave it to you. That was the benefit of being a celebrity in a big city, annoying life details were some other pony’s problem to smooth over. Even after he... retired, the experience at Broke Mountain was similar. Other ponies were around to make sure you got on your hooves and wings, handle the details and it was easy to be insulated from responsibility. In Art’s defence, he had expected to stay the night in a town, inn, or homestead and would have planned differently if he had known there was so much empty flyover country in this part of Equestria.

“Trixie cannot believe she has to share!” The door to her wagon slammed wide open, and she exited carrying a basket in her mouth. She dropped it beside the kindling, and her horn glowed as she started removing items from it. “Trixie cannot believe how you have forced her to cook for you, your utter incompetence. When I said I could do anything better than you, I never expected it to be so unspeakably easy. Take that, light the fire. Trixie is not spending the night in the dark and waking up to find you starved to death, stinking even more.” She nudged a flint and steel sparker his way and continued to arrange her pots and ingredients.

Artrageous took the sparker in his teeth, leaning in to stack to get the business end near the kindling. He wondered why she didn’t just use her magic to light a fire, why she had this device at all. Then he considered that maybe her bluster is to keep his thoughts from going in that direction. She can’t, and she didn’t want to put her face near flames, so this was her distraction. The urge to hoof her one was growing, and he found his back hooves digging into the dirt. The frustration helped him repeatedly clench the sparker just right, and many tiny, glittering stars flew from it and landed on the waiting bed, and one of them caught.

He carefully exhaled, watching the small red circle grow, and then pulled his head back once a flame appeared. He found he had his wings spread, creating a wind block, and the flame was growing well. He looked across the wood, Trixie was watching, and he couldn’t read her expression.

“Trixie could have done it faster with her magic,” she said, tossing her mane with her eyes closed as she turned up her nose, then concentrated on using her magic to jam the pot holder-frame into the ground. Her mane looked good, Art noticed, she’d used the time he was collecting twigs in his and dragging wood out of the woods to brush herself down and clean herself up. Another advantage of unicorn magic, it was very difficult for ponies to be independent, almost everything they might do required another’s assistance. Only unicorns could effectively be independent in all ways. Arty wasn’t going to be able clean up without help, he wasn’t even sure which box he’d put his brushes in, or if he had packed them at all.

“Well, then the Great and Powerful Trixie should have.” Artrageous said, snorting hard and sitting to rub at his flank. Perhaps he could clean off at least his cutie-mark, although all he was accomplishing was smearing some muddy sweat around.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is cooking dinner for a pegasus who should have planned ahead,” she snorted back. Beside her, a potato was spinning against a peeler, which was also glowing. Skinned, it went into the pot, followed by another, then some carrots, equally peeled and sliced. Trixie continued to anywhere except at him, provided it kept her nose pointed at least 15 degrees above the horizon. Art saw her sneaking glances at the vegetables while she worked, though she continued to act as if the entire effort required absolutely no attention. “You should be grateful.”

“And you’re not making any for yourself?”

“You will eat after the Great and Powerful Trixie eats. You will get what she finds unappealing.” She waved a hoof, like she was shooing away a fly. Actually, she was, several had been attracted by something, Trixie decided to blame Art. “You stink. You are attracting bugs, stand downwind in the smoke.”

“You know, you could help me clean up, or lend me a brush. It’s not like I planned for this.”

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is not doing you any favours.”

“You could do your stuck up nose a favour then, if I smell so much, lend me a brush.”

She dropped her head down and stared at him, her forehead furrowed, her eyes narrow, her mouth smiling. An expression collision of annoyed and amused. Art couldn’t tell which was her, and which was the show-pony. “I would have to burn it after you used it. I do not have any spare brushes.”

“Well then make some with your magic, oh Great and Powerful Trixie, what good is it if you can’t do practical things.”

Her horn flared. The onion, which was in the process of being sliced, reacquainted itself with the ground. The knife, which was doing the slicing, flew off and found a new friend across the track. Knives, incidentally, do not make good friends. Trixie was immediately on her hooves, and stomped into her wagon. The door stayed open this time. She re-emerged and stomped down the steps, then around the fire. She carried a long-handled brush and a currycomb in her mouth. She spat them at him. She returned to her side of the first, thumped her haunches down and stuck her chin in the air.

Her poise was ruined a few seconds later when she had to cross the road to find her knife and pull it out of the tree. She didn’t have a spare of that, either.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is not helping you,” she announced, as vegetables started to spin beside her again and enter the soup.

“I didn’t ask for help, I asked for a brush. I’ve got this.” Arty said, his teeth clenched on the handle as he twisted and rubbed. The curry-comb had a band to hold it on the hoof, and he could reach most places with it, but it still would have been easier to have another pony do. His back between his wings, and his wings where nigh impossible. He might as well rub against a tree like a bear. He grunted, snorted, twisted, flexed, strained, stretched, growled, snarled and ground his teeth on the brush-handle, but managed a passable grooming.

Then Arty noticed that Trixie was watching. Her eyes met his, and she immediately wrenched her head to the side. Several more vegetables loudly landed in the pot, and water splashed out, making the fire hiss.

Artrageous stood and walked around the fire. He gently dropped the brush and comb beside Trixie. If his wings were a little bit flared, and his chest puffed such that he looked bigger, it was unintentional. Really, Art told himself, I don’t like her. He returned to his side of the fire, stretched out and said, “Thanks.”

Not one to pass up an opportunity to be criticial, Trixie said, “You did a terrible job on your tail, and did nothing with your mane, you didn’t touch those braids. How do you do them?” Her question wasn’t as vehement as everything else she said.

“I don’t, I’m a pegasus, I get somepony else too, I can’t braid my own mane.”

“Oh... I thought maybe you were flexible and skilled with your...” She shut up. Coughed, then said loudly, “The Great and Powerful Trixie will braid your mane, since you are so incapable.”

“And you want me to do yours?”

“No, my mane is stellar. You will have to listen to the Great and Powerful Trixie as she talks about things that interest her.”

“Like what? Politics?”

“No, myself.”

It figures, Arty thought. He stood, tenderized the ground and made a little hollow, then knelt and laid down again. Trixie joining him on his side of the fire and started brushing his mane, and talking. Another advantage unicorns have, not having to hold the brush in their mouth, or disadvantage as it was turning out.

Trixie had run out of things to say about her magic. So, she moved onto her relationships. Not immediately, she had several scathing things to say about the state of his mane as she undid the knots, and clearly took pleasure in yanking out the twigs and brambles he’d picked up as hard as possible. Artrageous didn’t make a noise, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. At some point though, when the knots were undone and she was running the brush through his long, blue locks, playing with the hair, he became a surrogate for all the slumber parties she never had and it was confession time.

She could easily have finished sooner than she did, but something was always not right, had to be completely re-done, and was his fault, of course. The brushing did feel nice, and all that was expected of Arty was to lie there and say “okay, uhuh, really?” occasionally, just like before. Artrageous strongly suspected she might be flirting with him, but a few casual, ‘accidental’ bumps with his wings were reciprocated with immediate, awkward silence that went on too long. So he stopped doing that, well the ones that weren’t accidents, sometimes his wings did just move.

Trixie talked about her relationships, and she. had. lots. So many ponies trying to crack her brusk exterior and soothe the wounded mare they believed lay within. A veritable line of confidants that stretched from Canterlot to the edge of Equestria, all showering her with kindness and teaching her the meaning of friendship, forgiveness and generosity. All mares too, she was very specific. She was not interested in stallions. Stallions were big, insensitive, brutish lumps and she would take Flutterbutter or whatever her name was over them, any day. So he mustn’t get any ideas, at all. Arty was starting to suspect she was making some of these encounters up. It was simply impossible in the apparent time-line for her to have had a relationship with so many ponies. She would have to be an emotional, gymnastic disaster, bouncing from high and low extremes almost daily to be in the pitiful state she was invariably found and rescued from. It was only plausible because the Great and Powerful Trixie’s presence was just that absurd. If any pony was stuck and would never change, it would be her.

Arty had had enough when she started on the third recount of her meeting with Princess Luna for the first time. How wonderful and sensitive she was, how tragically misunderstood. How she was reminded of her every night she was out under the moonlight, how comforting the quiet darkness was, the velvet expanse of sky, how much it reminded her of the beautiful blue hues of her body, and how much she missed having her near. It felt like she was stealing his night from him, Artrageous couldn’t take it anymore.

“Enough! I get it. You’re a filly-fooler of the highest pedigree and the Great and Powerful Trixie wants to sleep alone tonight. I’m not interested, okay. Stop shoving it in my face. I’m sleeping out here.”

She stopped talking. She stopped brushing his mane. The brushes hit the ground, hard. He heard her stand. She said, “Your mane is done, you stupid pegasus. The Great and Powerful Trixie is going inside now,” and he felt like a worm.

“Trixie, I didn’t mean...”

“Whatever!” She cut him off, and stomped up the steps to her wagon. She slammed the door. She opened it a second later and shouted, “The Great and Powerful Trixie”, then slammed it again.

Artrageous listened to the fire crackle, and the crickets, and for any sounds coming from Trixie’s wagon. There were none at first, then a sort of rhythmic, springy thump followed by rapid clattering hoofsteps which might have been failing to kill a bug several times, but was probably a temper tantrum on the bed. It was followed by several loud thumps against the wagon wall, then silence again.

“You didn’t have any dinner,” Artrageous called out, as he ate his portion.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is not sharing with you.” Came her voice, from inside the wagon.

“All right then,” he said, and he finished eating in silence. He placed the lid on the stew pot and left it on the back of her wagon beside the door. He slunk over to his cart. For no reason he planted his fore hooves and slammed both his back ones into the side. They dug into the wood, leaving crescents and rocked the cart. Inside he heard his boxes banging about. He slunk up top, stretched out and laid down.

A few minutes later Trixie shouted, “Shut up out there!” Arty found he had been thumping the roof. He stopped.

He wanted to go to sleep, instead he started thinking. Perhaps he was supposed to get some message from all those things she had been saying, perhaps she thought he was listening. Maybe she kept insulting him because she thought it only was teasing him, and she never grew up from being a filly, and thought that was how adults got along and what they did when they liked each other. Certainly possible, especially if she was exposed to a lot of badly written plays. All those stories, her with this mare, her with that mare, might have been intended to arouse him. Some of the imagery was certainly very pleasant, and she had gotten descriptively carried away a few times. The awkward silences when he brushed her, might have been awkward because she didn’t know what to do, and her hesitation came across as cold compared with the enthusiasm he was used to from fans when he indicated an interest. Or maybe she was just the same self-absorbed, smug, egotist under the surface as she appeared on top of it. Maybe she didn’t want to be alone either.

This line of thinking was making Artrageous feel like a complete jerk. He didn’t like her, he didn’t want to fix her, she was amusing to talk to at first but it swiftly became grating. He could see ways of taking advantage of her, but wouldn’t, because he hadn’t sunk that low, but it was pretty obviously someone would, sooner or later. Mostly, he felt bad, because while he had no intention of upsetting her he still muddled his way into adding to her burden. He felt he should have been better, somehow, even though he wasn’t sure how, and he didn’t have enough of the patience she so obviously required. Whatever common ground they had was still too rocky.

Trixie was too much like Artrageous, and he simply didn’t like him self.

Goodbye Trixie

A figure slipped quietly into the camp. It was a camp only in name. The cooking fire had been cold for a long time, extinguished then buried at twilight. A small tent had been pitched inside a bush, directly between it and a tree, and disguised by downed foliage.

The intruder drew a long, thin blade with a truncated stabbing point. He wore clothes that concealed his face, flanks, mane and tail, muffled the sound of his movements and helped him blend into the wilderness and darkness. With fluid visciousness, he stabbed the tent, aiming for the centre of mass of the occupant. The blade penetrated an easy, then solid resistance.

Immediate he spun to face an attack from behind. He had hit wood, wrapped in cloth, not the complex structure of a pony’s body. Then his hooves left the ground. A wire garrote was cinched beneath his jaw, lifting him, cutting into his flesh. Choking him.

He swung overhead. The first blow glanced along the wire. His neck was bleeding, his struggles cutting the wire deeper like a slow guillotine. The second was better aimed, it hit the wire, and the branch it was hanging him from. The two snapped. He fell, twisting. A stake grazed his left hind leg. He anticipated the trap, and the attack with it. His blade came up, deflecting a thrust and riposting along its length. For good measure he flung ground glass at eye height.

His opponent did the same, as he inhaled. He would have taken glass into his lungs without his protection. His eyes were fine. The moon glinted off the tiny shards trapped in the fine mesh covering his face, it was like fighting surrounded by stars. The opponent waited till he inhaled, good technique!

His neck stung, the wire had cut in and he was bleeding, but it had not worked through all the muscle and sinew. It had gone slack enough to be an irritant, just as the blood flowing from his throat was. A few shards of glass were caught in the flow, also unimportant. The cut on his flank was likewise a minor scratch. For all intents and purposes he was at full fighting strength, and knew he could take his target under the current conditions.

They fought. Two shadows with flashes of moonlight between them, and the ringing of bells. Swift, automatic, instinctive responses to infinitesimal cues. Guard, turn, parry, dodge, spin, thrust. He slid his hooves, plowing caltrops out of the way, every trick of advantage anticipated and spoiled. He could feel the opponent’s attacks weakening, vibrations in the thrust, blocks becoming weak. His victory was assured.

Except, the stars in front of his eyes were glowing brighter. The blade’s flash was prolonging, becoming a searing arc that persisted on his vision, obscuring other details. It was growing harder to tell where his opponent lay, what the next move would be, he was fighting by feel and sound alone.

The spike! He had time to think. It has been coated with a poison, enough to make him go blind, or the garrote. One of them, combined with the exertion, and he lost his edge. With a sickening finality, he felt a sharp force punch through his chest, skewering him. He hooked his hoof on the hilt, and with his remaining strength thrust his blade in the return direction. He felt the soft, yet firm resistance of a sword cutting into flesh, then the jarring stop as it hit bone. No sound. He thrust again, striking up for the weapon arm, and was rewarded with another cut and a squeak of pain. Pulling his blade back for a third time, he lunged to bury it in her chest. He felt the tip touch, penetrate, then the blade twist on his hoof and fall down. The ground rose up to meet him, slamming the hilt even harder against his chest. He was drowning.

At the most, he had mutilated her arms, tagged her with a poison she most certainly had the antidote to. Perhaps he had smoothed the way for a successor, but he had failed, and things grew darker.

The body was lifeless when she severed the head and gouged out the eyes. His last visions would have revealed nothing, but the Discipline must always be followed. She slices off his cutie-marks, giving him the anonymity in death he practiced in life and bundled those strips into his mouth with a nugget of phosphorus, positioning it to burn into his braincase. She took his blade, adding it to the others. She would dismember his body, travel a mile, then throw the parts into the underbrush.

As she finished her preparations, she said a final prayer in a foreign tongue. “I honour you, my ancestors, with the blood of my enemy, spilt in defense of our house and name. Use it to grow strong.”

It’s a simple, automatic gesture from time immemorial. Except some things are started for a reason, and some things forgotten for a reason. As pony blood shed by pony hatred seeps into the ground of the Everfree forest, its symbolism and the prayer combine to awaken an ancient power. It attaches itself to the source of the discord.

It’s weak, but it will grow, and it follows the defender’s path like a sickly shadow.

* * * * * *

Morning arrived. Artrageous could tell everything was covered in dew, because he was a part of that everything. His wings, his back, his legs, all parts of him her stiff and aching. He stood, or tried to stand, the first few attempts his hooves shot out from under him and he belly-flopped back on the top of his cart. I’m never sleeping like this again, he thought. No matter how long it takes, next time find a cloud or build a cloud.

He hopped down to the ground and went through is warm up routines, to get the blood flowing. He was also hungry. Well, there was grass, but he didn’t feel inclined to graze for a couple hours to get full, and he wanted something with flavour. I suppose it can be a backup plan, he thought, funny it didn’t occur to me last night. He was so accustomed to food that was much more energy efficient, it had slipped his mind. Trixie’s too, apparently.

The mare in question was also awake. She came out of her wagon and said “Hello” pleasantly, and picked up the pots and utensils from the night before. She knew at least one practical spell, one for doing dishes, and they all glowed briefly before becoming clean and then she packed them away.

Artrageous watched her, he wasn’t sure what to say, he didn’t have anything to do. His departure preparations consisted of slipping his harness on, and Trixie didn’t have that much more to do either. Packing up the camp only took her a few minutes. She trotted over.

“Are you planning on travelling with me today?”

“I guess,” Arty replied, wondering if flying would be faster, “where does the road go?”

“It’s straight through the farmlands. At a decent pace, late in the afternoon it branches, heading north to Ypslanti, and the other fork leading to Canterlot. It’s not possible to reach a town, but it’s a bit more civilized so there are plenty of places to stay.”

“Okay, at least as far as the fork then.”

“All right. I’ll lead.” She turned and went back to her wagon. She put on her harness, she was using a pad, and her horn then the straps glowed. She leaned forward hard, her four legs straining as she struggled with the static weight of her wagon. The wheels glowed and she moved forward. She didn’t look at him once as she passed, and she wasn’t waiting for him.

Arty jumped to the front of his cart and nosed into his collar. It was repulsive, it was grimey from yesterday and dew had not improved it. It settled cold, and clammy about his shoulders. He would have to get a blanket and peeled his lips at the taste of the strap. A lurch forward, and he was rolling too. He pulled his cart back onto the road and plodded after Trixie.

She didn’t talk. She would answer questions, if Art employed ‘the Great and Powerful’ label, provided they were about the route or journey. Any other subject, like last night or herself, prompted a “She has said enough” response, and all her answers were succinct and discouraged conversation. Occasionally she would say, “there is an interesting rock formation to your right” and other such panoramic information but there was no continuance.

It wasn’t exactly snubbing him, but it wasn’t yesterday either. Artrageous wondered about this, Trixie was acting strangely... professional. Perhaps at one point in the past she had worked with a troupe or other showponies and obviously there would be some she didn’t get along with. On second thought, perhaps there might have been a couple she did get along with. The others, well, she’d have to have some sort of functional, show-must-go-on, personality and this was what she was employing with Art now. It was a pity, because he was liking her a lot more this way, even though she seemed distant, disconnected.

So they travelled alone, together. Trixie eventually stopped saying things about the landscape, it was pretty, and that could be pointed out only so many times. Art drifted into a meditative plod where he stared at the back of her wagon and maintained distance. On the up-hills where it looked like she was having difficulty, he planted his head against it, flapped wings and helped push. Her wagon wheels glowed, she could have managed without him, he helped anyhow. It was not remarked upon.

The day stretched on. As the shadows were starting to lengthen, her wagon slowed, then stopped. Trixie didn’t get out of her harness, she shouted at him from inside the lines, “The road splits here. You will be going your own way.”

“Okay.”

“The Great and Powerful Trixie has won the challenge of being nice, but you didn’t have to make it so easy.”

“I think we both lost.”

“Yes.” Her wagon wheels started glowing, and then the rig lumbered forward, “but you lost more. Bye pegasus.”

“Goodbye Trixie,” Artrageous slammed into his collar and started dragging his load down the other fork. Then he thought, I can fly, I don’t need this, and he flapped his wings and started up into the sky.

Below, as her wagon was disappearing under the trees, Trixie called out, “It’s the ‘Great and Powerful Trixie’, I’m the greatest magician you’ve ever seen and I can do anything.” He didn’t reply, it was obvious why she kept saying that, but he felt there was no point reciprocating.

Arriving at Ponyville

It was three more days before Artrageous arrived at Ponyville. Two of them were spent flying, the one in the middle was resting up at the Burst’s farm. They were a pair of earth pony floriculturists that also made honey on the side. Bee Burst, Versifier Burst, and their little colt Rhyming were pleasant, generous ponies and Art was grateful for a day to rest his wings and look at fields of flowers. He helped out a little, weeding and planting. Bee dressed up in her keeper-cloak and showed him how she smoked her bees. At one point they may have all broken into song and as he spread his wings and led a swarm in flight across a field. It was that sort of rare, magical afternoon.

It was an average, uneventful afternoon when Artrageous arrived at the little town. He spotted the large farms when he was approaching Canterlot, and swung in their direction. As he grew closer he saw the streams and candy coloured buildings. There were a few clouds in the sky, but he searched for the strange ones. He saw a large cumulus with rainbows pouring out of it.

All right, they don’t get much stranger than that, he thought, this must be where the pegasoi park their houses. There were a few others of unusual shape, including one cloud-house that was painful to look at. It seemed strangely out of focus, crossing his eyes, it resolved into a manedelbrot-like spiral sculpture which was still painful to look at, but obviously was the original intention. On the ground beneath it was a house shaped like a giant mailbox.

Art sighed, he’d make something impressive later. Right now he wanted a place to park his stuff and to take the harness off. He left the cart parked on one cloud, grabbed a second and teased and fluffed it with his wings till it had become a structure. He also painted it purple, like a cloud catching the last rays of a sunset.

“On a clear day you can seek forever.” A cheerful voice said behind him.

Arty flipped over. Hovering behind him was a grey mare with a blond mane. His impulse was to look for her cutie-mark, but he tried holding her gaze instead. That turned out to be hard. She watched him with one eye, then her other swung to stare at him while the first darted off to one side. As the two of them approached focusing on just him, she started to rotate until she was hovering upside-down. This was a rather adept piece of flying, and Arty was compelled to duplicate it. Since he hadn’t done anything like it in a while.

“Hello, I’m...”

“National Disaster!” Her eyes went wide, “Tragedy!”

“What!”

“A nation mourns her lost heroes! Moral drops with fallen idols. Rest of season cancelled. Witnesses scared for life. How to explain to your foals.”

The world was spinning for Artrageous, and not just because he’d forgotten to flap while upside down.

She caught him before he hit the ground, hooking his hooves and flipping him so he landed on them, slowing Arty enough it was merely a painful strain in his legs. It knocked the wind out of him, but the feeling he had been double-bucked in the gut was from before. He struggled to breathe, to say anything, choking and knotted inside.

“The sky is the sky,” she hugged him, “Princess raises the sun every day. Rivers run out to the sea. Ponies still love you. Nothing is forgotten, everything is forgiven, in time.”

“I’m...” he said, managing to force it out, his eyes stinging.

“The mail pony,” she answered, slapping a saddlebag with her wing and giving Artrageous another squeeze around the neck with her forelegs. “You don’t have any.”

Then she turned and quickly flew out of the worst introduction of his life.

* * * * * *

Artrageous was walking through Ponyville for the first time. He’d unpacked his cart by himself. It was one of those things, he would have appreciated help, but didn’t want to ask, and no pony noticed on their own. He was going to be upset either way, and wasn’t sure which option he would have preferred. It probably would have gone faster with help, he thought, and my wings wouldn’t hurt so much.

It seemed pleasant enough, widely spaced, colourful buildings, lots of flowers and decorations, ponies occupied with various tasks. Arty was keeping to himself when a shout behind him made his mane and tail frizz.

“I don’t know you!”

He turned, there was a pink... blurr, with blue eyes. “I don’t know you, and I need to know you. I know every pony here. Every pony! You must be one of the new ponies. There’s a lot of new ponies in Ponyville, so I’m throwing a Pinkie Pie Ponyville pony party for new ponies! All the new ponies will be there, and the ponyville ponies. Are you a party pony? You have to be there, so you can meet every pony. We’ll have punch and games and my name is Pinkie Pie!”

“I’m... Artrageous,” he gasped.

“Great! I’ll see you therrrree.” She threw her arm over his shoulder, held up a hoof in front of him, “Pinkie swear.” He blinked. She repeated, shaking her hoof, “Pinkie swear! Double dare! Break a promise if you don’t care. You’ll be sorrrrry”

She eyeballed him, very closerly.

“I’ll, be there. Sure. I pinkie-swear. Thank you for the invite Pinkie Pie.”

“Okaaaay. Oh lookie! There’s another new pony.” She bounded away, a distant scream of “I don’t know you!” startling another pony.

Artrageous watched, this must have been what the nurse was talking about. He didn’t want to go to the party, and he didn’t want to not-go. He fondly remembered enjoying parties and crowds, before... his retirement. He wasn’t sure he could enjoy himself at one now. He looked at the ground, his hoof. He had pinkie-sworn. He had a hunch it wasn’t a good idea to disappoint the pink one. Some ponies ride with the wind, other ponies make it, and that pony, well she was a force of nature and all his instincts said it was best just to be swept along.