Chronicles of Equestria II: The Magician, the Toy Maker and the Past

A usual little orb of wonder, glistering in the light of the stars, flying through space in a majestic fashion, turning and dancing in the shine of its own brilliant sun, followed around by its moon, which by itself is rather normal; well, at least since its surface has lost the odd likeness of an alicorn mare. In short: An amazing world of infinite opportunity! On it, a shapely continent, riddled with marvelous mountains, grandiose gulfs, fabolous flatlands, luminous lakes, rich and mysterious forests, quaint little settlements and stupefying, even luxurious cities. In the continent, a country with a long, proud history, led by the sister alicorns who control the world’s moon and sun respectively, watching over their people in an eternity of peace, only interrupted by minor inconveniences and the occasional incidents which are swiftly and cleanly taken care of by the ancient Elements of Harmony. Truly a grand utopia in the flesh. Truly something that’s so good that it can’t possibly hold any merit to be real. But it was as real as the ponies inhabiting the great nation of Equestria, it was as real as the countless lives, swirling around in it, mostly unaware of one another, beyond a handful of friendly neighbours. It was as real as anything gets, but that didn’t necessarily mean that it was the only possible way for the world to be. Oh no. And the ponies knew too! That’s why so many read the dashing tales of noless dashing, but completely and utterly fictional adventurers, as produced by the usually merry, somewhat frantic but genuinely charming bunch who made up a good portion of Equestria’s writing community.

Colt Smith wasn’t one of them.

The middle aged, brown stallion who was trotting home through the streets and pathways of Ponyville was no less frantic than the rest of Equestria’s writers, and if the chatter of townsfolk is any measure, then his charisma wasn’t in need of much further refining either, but “merry” was probably not the word to describe the earth pony.

He was kind, he was attentive towards those around him and never forgot to give a friendly or supportive smile when talking with his neighbours. He could even have been described as a happy stallion, but the blind and deaf joy of common merriment was not something to define him. The reason behind this was most likely connected to the one thing through which he gained his relatively meager fame: The Doctor Whooves series of books, following the adventures of possibly the strangest of heroes who prances around the universe, stopping evil on every corner with the routine of a small town mailmare. He wasn’t quite fond of talking about the tale, though he never truly shared why. It was sort of a common agreement between those who knew him, that it’s either that he dislikes “fan talk” or that he’s just weird, in the way most writers are, and needs to get into “the zone” to pull the whole thing together.

Contrary to popular belief, the stallion had more on his mind than his story and the set of everyday routines which everyone has to bother with throughout their lives. No, for a while now, he was working on something, that in certain context could be taken very wrongly: He was spying.

Naturally, he didn’t spy for “the enemy” because of the lack of one such, and neither did his “spying” concentrate on anypony in particular, or rather, it only did due to an uncanny amount of coincidences. And that was exactly what he spied on: Coincidence. The thing about the great big world he shared with everyone else, was that coincidences were bound to happen. Some were trivial, such as a whole mess of neighbours happening to buy at the same shop, which exactly because of its triviality wasn’t considered a coincidence. Some were much, much greater and equally pointless, like a pony’s great, great, great uncle happening to have been good friends with a painter, who once drafted a picture of a mare whose great grand daughter would just so happen to be the original pony’s nanny. But, there were coincidences that just boggled the mind. Coincidences, which in a way could be said to be the reason why Colt Smith ended up in Equestria in the first place. And one of the most fascinating one of these coincidences - no, a system of coincidences - was just unraveling before his eyes:

An impossible stallion, laying claim to a life of adventure, residing to be a shopkeeper, admittedly not even following his natural talent’s calling. A rotten mare, who used her talents as an illusionist to try and place herself above others, visiting the aforementioned stallion on some sort of business. The clever and overly eager - yet somewhat insecure - librarian, who by herself happens to be a hub of fantastic events, an element of harmony, vanquisher of Discord, the saviour of the aforementioned strange stallion, and the one who could deliver, where the rotten magician could only promise.

Though Smith personally didn’t understand the concepts of magic, he wanted to think he had a grasp on a few fields that were always considered “everypony’s science”, such as the search for fate and destiny, even if only as a botcher in the workshop of the highest powers. He made a habit of looking for the bigger picture, playing around with hidden-, mystical-, or plainly non-existent connections between separate events and people. When once called out on this odd tick by a fellow writer, he would simply reply that he most probably adapted it from his eccentric creation: “The Doctor”. In fact, wondering on this strange connection of the three uncommon unicorns only caused him to ponder on how his character would look at the mystery. No doubt, the Doctor would have by this point constructed some sort of impossible piece of scientific ingenuity, scanned existence a couple of times, then having unlocked the mysteries of life and destiny, would have hurried on to pick a fight with a couple dozen of the ruder civilizations, before finishing the day in a couch, intimately cuddled up with a few pulp fiction novels.

Well maybe he wouldn’t have bothered with it in the first place - mostly due to his usual habit of letting the world have her secrets - but if forced, that’s probably what the Doctor would have done, and perhaps that’s exactly why Smith didn’t even try. Not for the futility of such an attempt, but for the grimm loss of wonder, the success of such pursuit would bring. He had an odd preference to searching, over finding. As much as he enjoyed looking for the key to mysteries such as the curious connection of the adventurer-turned-toymaker, the megalomaniac-stage-magician and the hero-turned-librarian, he simply felt that as romantic or fantastic the methods of his Doctor may look in a work of fiction, they were simply... And that was the dilemma that kept him wondering. What was wrong with what the Doctor did? It was a question of constant annoyance to him. He knew there was something elementally wrong, he felt it, he resented it. But he just couldn’t explain it. And how could he? To say there was something wrong, he first would have needed to declare what is right and wrong in the world, and it would have taken a more arrogant pony than him to do just that. Other writers would see this hole in the image of their protagonist as a mistake, a failing that needs to be corrected in their work. Smith saw it as a gaping wound that could not, and should not be patched. It was part of the Doctor, it was part of his being, just as it was part of Smith that he could hardly keep his mind together on a single point, or when he tried, his thoughts just drifted back on his Doctor.

Another mystery perhaps? The mystery how the Doctor can relate in his mind to everything? Could be, and he thought on it too, but again, doesn't everyone relate to everything in this insanely complicated world? Why would a self proclaimed, time traveling saviour of mystery be any different? And why would[...]?

While lost in the endless ongoing series of thoughts, Colt Smith unconsciously and automatically made his way home and made a cup of tea without giving the process a single moment in his overactive mind. He laid back and allowed the warm drink to soothe his mind and body. When his thoughts raced around aimlessly like now with the unicorns and the Doctor, a cup of tea would always help him relax. On one side, he hated how he could lose track of reality, and end up in an infinite highway of questions, answers and overly complicated, yet mundane concepts of existence; but, at the same time, he knew that this strange waltz which his mind performed was what allowed him to see the way he saw, and that the way he saw was exactly what got him where he was; and where he was, was not a bad place, considering the alternatives.

He looked around from the large, low sofa he was resting on, sweeping his study room with his eyes. The first thing that caught his attention was the odd little blue box on his desk, a finely crafted replica of the fantastical time machine of his tales - as he explained to his occasional visitors. The stallion’s eyes rested on the box for a while, a few deviant thoughts playing in the back of his mind, but finally he shooed them off and stood up, walking to his desk. There, he looked at a month old publication of “The Equestrian” - a popular newspaper which was ran out of Canterlot. He knew but a precious few of the ponies working with the paper, even though he should have known most of them due to his constant invitations to the bi-monthly writers’ conferences held in the capital. He attended a couple of times - perhaps thrice or so - but found that there was something lacking. No doubt, what was lacking was his own excitement towards an event where he would be locked in with eccentric and quiet masterminds of intrigue, the general writers who tend to stick with their small complement of visiting fans and colleague friends; and - of course - the outspoken adventure writers who confuse science fiction with big things that ring, dazzle and look good, fantasy with an excuse to write whatever they feel like, and romances with bitter comedies. Though, on further consideration, perhaps they are correct in the field of romance.

Interestingly, one of the few writers he knew, and one of the only ones he actually had any respect towards beyond ‘sociable’ level, was the author of the article he had last opened The Equestrian’s month old edition at. By itself, it wouldn’t be that interesting, but there was the fact this writer - Clover Cover - had in fact wrote it about the stallion Smith’s been thinking about. Yet another coincidence of sorts, though it would seem minor and relatively distant, possibly just another fragment of Smith’s imagination crashing on him as his racing mind tries to envelop all there is in an attempt which he knows better than most to be foolish.

Colt Smith huffed with an odd little smile on his face, clearing his mind of the headless conspiracy theory, instead just reaching off the sofa with one hoof, pressing a small gizmo on the ground and then listening to the newly started record player across the room. He rested his head on his hooves, closed his eyes and mildly sung along with the song’s writer: “Times, have changed. - And we’ve often rewound the clock [...]”

Before he would have stopped singing while drifting asleep for the afternoon, his mind played around one last time. As foolish as trying to figure out how the universe works, and why coincidences happen - or even what they truly are -, it is rather fun. Perhaps it too could be considered a sort of “bitter comedy”, between the thinker and the world.

Books are a strange sort of thing. They can hold knowledge; free or secret, important or trivial, useful or pointless. They can be more versatile than any other art form. They can carry more meaning than any historical artifact. Can depict, explain, study or simply state anything comprehensible and generally work with the most unacknowledged of the senses: Thinking. In fact, as Colt Smith knew from many, many historical examples that all civilizations have an era when all of culture and science rests upon the fragile pages of books; somewhere just before they become a plaything, and something else steps in.

There’s not much to be disappointed at however, being a writer didn’t necessarily mean that Colt Smith would have resented the relatively small interest books gathered in what was the most recent definition of “modern society”. The world changes, cultures change, and it’s probably good. But even if not, pockets of what was will always remain, if nowhere else, in their own given time period, stalwartly stating “I was.” even if no one’s paying attention. Ponyville’s library was a - temporally-speaking - mobile one of these pockets and a comfortable safe heaven for all things written across various eras. Maybe it wasn’t swarmed by ponies who’d be constantly checking new books in and out, but it was there always if somepony needed it, and in the end, that’s what’s important.

It’s been a week since he first visited Oakleaf’s new Toyshop, and his mind still played with the odd system of connections between the toymaker, “The Great and Powerful Trixie”, and the librarian in whose home he’s been looking at a brand new book at the moment, oddly titled: “The Brief and Frightening Reign of Grim Bolt”. ‘Looking’ was the perfect description of what he was doing, as he didn’t pay much attention to the actual contents of the pages, his mind distracted by the aforementioned mystery.

This was his general stance in life. His mind set on one thing, his body set on another, the two rarely acknowledging each other, like a young-bound marriage which went stale. It wasn’t rare that he even managed to have brief conversations without being aware of them until much later. When it wasn’t a system of coincidences like this, it was something else. Sometimes it was his Doctor, sometimes it was Equestria or the world in general, and sometimes it was all of the above together. Used to be, his writing helped. It allowed for him to channel his thoughts onto paper, but he didn’t do that for a while now. Everypony was amazed when during his first two years of living in Equestria, he released over four dozen short stories, none realizing that it would actually had been harder for him not to write them all down, than to be this “productive”. Beyond allowing his mind to stay together, writing of the Doctor also gave Smith a sense of closure which’s source he didn’t feel like sharing with anypony.

Recently however for the past months he just stopped, which had most ponies wondering, especially since his stories ended quite abruptly, on a note suggesting that his protagonist is bound to die soon due to some complicated, and hardly explained petrification of a single moment in the tangled and thoroughly violated timeline of his curious world. Exactly because of things like this is why some of his more negative critics claimed he stopped because he just couldn’t keep up with all the nonsense he weaved. Others claimed he was simply gathering inspiration and material for “something big”, but what that something could be, no one knew. The first few times he was asked when he’ll continue, he’d just reply playfully “Now, that would be telling.” but since then, he became a bit more bitter about the topic, trying to just ignore it.

In all honesty, the answer to why he wasn’t writing anymore, was very simple, yet complicated at the same time. He just didn’t want to write anymore. He had many reasons why he knew he shouldn’t write his stories, their ludacrisy being but a minor one. Another, much bigger reason was that the stories simply didn’t manage to say what he wanted to say; and really, how could they? He made the elemental mistake of writing about a pony above the commons, in a world bigger and more complicated than anypony would bother to understand. He placed a hero where a person should have been. There was no correcting that, without rewriting his work, but he couldn’t do that especially since what was already written was the only thing remaining to be said. Perhaps this caused his fixation with mundane pursuits like looking for coincidences. Perhaps it had just driven him into a unique, purely mental state of being stir crazy. Or maybe he had just pulled in one anchor and had yet to find another one to drop.

He looked up from his book and at Twilight Sparkle across the room who was gathering a couple of other books for him. A brief sense of sadness pressed down on Smith’s shoulder before he looked back down and closed the book.

‘I’ve got them all.’ came from Twilight a moment later, about a dozen books flying around above her head. ‘Did you have anything else on your mind that wasn’t on the list?’

‘No, thank you Miss Sparkle.’ Smith replied with a friendly smile towards the mare.

‘I’ll never get why you, Big Macintosh, and even that new stallion can’t just call me Twilight, even after I asked.’ admonished Twilight.

‘Maybe we’re just stuck in our strange, backwards ways, Miss Sparkle. Or perhaps we’re all secretly big fans of those fiendishly heartbreaking romance novels that are bent on milking the last drop of tears from their victims’ eyes and proving that all mares are masters- and addicts of reverse psychology.’ Smith played, paused and nodded: ‘Miss Sparkle.’

‘Well, if you are, none of you are get your books from me.’ she replied simply, while flying every book down before her eyes and double checking if she has everything. ‘Do you want that one too?’ she asked once done, flying the closed copy of “The Brief and Frightening Reign of Grim Bolt” off of the desk in front of Smith.

‘No, thank you. I’ve already read it before.’

‘You did? I thought it just got published this week.’ Twilight asked mildly, checking the cover again, but Smith still got hit hard by the question for a moment.

‘Oh, no.’ he replied quickly. ‘Not this book, but one very similar to it. I guess I’m just not interested in re-reading the same...’ he paused to look for a word. ‘Concept.’

‘Oh? Okay.’ Twilight nodded with a strange look, not understanding the odd reaction. ‘Uh, it’s probably not right to ask, but you seem so distracted again. Is everything alright?’

“Alright.” A funny little concept. When is everything alright really? Colt Smith knew for a fact that there was never a day something wouldn’t have been wrong in the world, but of course she meant with him.

Not a single moment had passed, yet for him it seemed quite a while as he looked at her, looking for his answer. He wanted to be honest with her with every piece his very being, or at least honest to anyone, but instead he answered this question as he always did when the librarian asked him:

‘Of course.’ he smiled, shrugging it off. ‘I just have a lot on my mind.’ he added, thinking that there was no reason not to share part of the truth, however ambiguous. ‘I’ve been thinking on this series of connections and oddities lately.’

‘What sort of connections?’ the librarian asked, while she reinforced the saddle pack in which she put the stallion’s books.

‘Ah, just how this Oakleaf fellow gets saved by you who were in just the right place at the right time, and though he obviously has no history with the field, decides to become a shopkeeper, then out of the blue decides to employ that showmare “Trixie” who you also happened to have some history with. For whatever reason, I also happen to know the journalist who wrote the first and so-far only article on him, which’s chances are already low.’ he spun the tale out, leaving a few details to himself. Saying it all aloud however just made him realise how completely pointless the whole chain of thought feels like in this form as if missing a component, a purpose. Before his mind could drift off once more however, Twilight placed the packed books before him and noted:

‘I don’t really know how all that is more odd than life in general, but if you meant Miss Clover by that journalist, then I suppose you could also add that I actually used to exchange with her when I was younger, so she knows both me and him.

‘Oh.’ Smith smiled back feeling awkward. Perhaps out of the blue, or perhaps seeing this, the librarian continued in an easier tone, lightening the mood:

‘Now, if let’s say there would be a Bad Wolf involved somewhere, things would start to get really spooky.’

‘Ha.’ nodded Smith, acknowledging the reference to his “work”, partially happy that the librarian read it, partially lost in an instabile sense of presque vu, as if he was forgetting something crucial.

‘Well...’ Twilight interrupted him after a few seconds of silence. ‘Here are your books, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you this.’ She flew a small pamphlet on top of the bags.

‘Hm?’ Smith looked at it as his mind refocused and he quickly recognized it as an info paper for the new book club the mare started a while ago, he had seen a few of them across town. ‘Oh, I’m not too sure if I’d belong...’ he started, but Twilight chipped in.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure our members won’t bug you about your series, and I won’t bring it up unless you want. And I’m sure some of them would love to hear a writer’s view on literature.’

‘Ah, I’m sure there would be better writers for that...’ the stallion started, trying to deflect the offer, but then made the mistake of looking into the mare’s eyes. They weren’t pressuring, they weren’t convincing, they were just what they were, with a dash of curiosity. ‘I think I’ll try and make it to the next meeting.’ he said after but a moment’s hesitation.

‘Thank you! I’m sure you’ll enjoy! Our meetings are always on the same day, just read the pamphlet and don’t let me keep you!’

The librarian wasn’t known to have this effect on ponies all facts considered, but Colt Smith respected her for everything she used to be and even more for what she was at the given time and for that, he had to accept. There rarely was a moment when he felt like he could read a thousand books and not find a proper representation of his feelings, but as usual when he left the library: That moment was right then.

There was always a great many things on which Colt Smith could never agree on with his Doctor. One of the few things he did however agree with him on was that you can tell quite a lot of someone by the way they look at others. During the month after the arrival of “Trixie” this belief just became more and more troublesome for him to wonder on.

In all honesty, he barely ever saw the mare in that month, nopony perhaps with the exception of Oakleaf and the owner of a small grocery store ever saw the hide of her. Yet, even without having any contact with her, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted her out of Ponyville, as far as possible. It wasn’t a personal hate, instead he just knew too much of her to believe she’ll stay a quiet, laid back pony for long and he knew her place was not here. Or, at the very least, he believed he did know these things, and that right there was the problem. What sort of a stallion is he if he judges somepony off of who she may or may not be? His mind kept telling him that she just wasn’t supposed to be there, even worse, that she’s unstable and might cause any number of disturbances if ticked off at the wrong moment. She was a megalomaniac with atelophobia, one of the worst combinations possible. If she doesn’t decide to show everypony how superior she is, then it will be something else. Perhaps she’s just going to hold it in and become a ticking bomb. But why should she? What law does he know which bounds this mare to be a bringer of ill spirits? What laws he himself didn’t prove unbreakable? Sure he can predict certain things, but can he predict the course a mare’s life will take after an already unpredictable turn? Does he have the right to even try?

This was one of the core points which he loathed in his own creation. The Doctor’s shining justice over the misled and the ill-fated who perhaps could have been better if he only let them. Then again, as the very few ponies to whom he mentioned this problem with the Doctor replied, “that’s fiction, it’s allowed in fiction”. But why?

There were a multiple reasons why the showmare circled back into his thoughts repeatedly, the fact that she had set up her mobile-home a short way out of Ponyville, by chance visible from his home being one, the fact that he kept visiting Oakleaf for a while now, was another. As long as he lived, he had a fascination with gadgets of all kinds, that wasn’t much of a secret. It wouldn’t take a particularly brilliant individual either to spot a faint connection between this fixation and the fact that he was writing Science Fiction. On the other hand, he had a different sort of fascination which is less recognized as the life bread of the selfsame genre: a fancy for exotic cultures, something the toy maker had experience with. The third interest which made science fiction possible, and which caused him to visit the eccentric shop owner was when the first two came together and managed to make no sense whatsoever, is such a spectacular way that it just vibrated in the back of one’s neck, with the odd feeling that if one untangles this mess and reveals how it all works, all of the world’s problems will come full circle. - A charming, but sadly completely untrue idea, promoted by books. After all, what writer wants to annoy his or her own readers by leaving any major questions up for their imagination? Well, aside from a few like Colt Smith used to, back when he wrote. But that didn’t mean he didn’t at least hope that if he manages to understand oddities like the teal stallion running the latest toy shop of Ponyville, then he’ll have - at the very least - a better understanding of how this world works. A not entirely misguided idea, and one in which he had more certainty than most, even if he didn’t share with most, why that was so.

As stated already, Colt Smith wasn’t very savvy when it came to questions of magic. He could have just wrote it up along with a shrug next to the fact that he wasn’t a unicorn, but he prefered to think of it as a failing on his part, because failings, one can always overcome. For that, even with his limited understanding, he tried to untangle how, or at least: Why unicorns use magic the way they do. Naturally, it should be obvious that a unicorn can’t just look at a stone, squint his or her eyes then turn the rock into a diamond without any training, and a peculiar kind of elemental science behind it, so it shouldn’t be much of a mystery why it took so long for a unicorn to develop a way to make his way halfway around the world, back into Equestria, like Oakleaf did. Yet, just by being a writer of stories where action and consequence are of grave importance, Colt Smith knew that there was something about the toy maker’s story that did not add up.

The writer didn’t assume that Oakleaf would keep a secret for any malicious reasons, he knew better than to apply pulp fiction logic to life, but the amount of time it took for a stallion to figure out a way home, while his talent was allegedly developing spells, was a bit curious. Not to mention that after listening to Oakleaf’s descriptions of the various cultures he met and a bit of research, thanks to the extensive, and mostly unread collection of enciclopedic studies in Twilight’s library, Colt Smith concluded that while Equestria didn’t maintain any sort of official presence in those lands, the continent the toymaker was describing was very much explored in full recently, and more importantly: Many of the various cultures of those lands actually had rather good ideas about how to find a few small ports and settlements which were inhabited by colonist ponies, or griffons, all of which were settled in the past two decades. This could have given a quick way home to the lost unicorn, and it seemed rather odd to imagine that he’d forget to ask such questions. Granted, even if somepony knew where to look for those settlements, getting to them would have been a long, tiring and even dangerous journey, but it wouldn’t have been impossible, nor would it have taken two extra decades.

No, there must have been some reason why Oakleaf didn’t come back, aside from the difficulty of the journey, and Smith was bent on finding out what that was, for curiosity’s sake. As he saw it, the best case scenario was that the unicorn simply loved the adventure of living in those lands and among its cultures meaning he’s exactly the kind of a pony any writer who’s anything of a writer would like to talk with. There were a set of less inspiring theories Colt Smith had floating around in his mind, a few of them he even shared with a mailing partner - without any remorse for gossip. These curious ideas he wrote down and kept in his writing desk for later, along with the letters of his mailing partner, and an old talisman, bearing the royal sigil of the sun. A final theory which was in a way, hidden in plain sight was the toys themselves and their mysterious designer whom Oakleaf mentioned.

Naturally, even with all of these theories flying before his eyes, Colt Smith always kept on being a gentlecolt and didn’t pressure Oakleaf about them, he was genuinely curious about how a stallion of magic lived and thinked, and they both were aware of this without having to expressly say it. And that was enough. While Oakleaf did mention how interestingly the only two ponies who expressed such interest in his life so far were writers, and joked - then apologized for saying - that they probably are just running out of material; he didn’t seem to mind talking about his experiences, even if he did seem to dodge a number of subjects.

The one odd thing Colt Smith just couldn’t put quite anywhere, and for what he didn’t even have a theory for - thus quing the unshakable urge to think about - was Trixie. An act of charity? A crooked eye for talent? A good eye for talent? - Again, Colt Smith didn’t know the first thing about magic. - Or perhaps as Oakleaf once tried to explain: simply the premise to work with somepony who doesn’t want to chat a lot, and who’s not interested in absolutely everything he ever did? No doubt, that explanation - even if also true - was a nod at the fact how at that time Colt Smith had been lingering in the shop for three hours doing nothing but probing the unicorn with questions, but that didn’t stop Oakleaf from going on and entertaining the writer’s curiosity for another two hours that day, and then on many other days without any further words of dismissal.

Trixie was in many ways the exact opposite of just that, and while Smith wasn’t proud of having expectations, for the most part her behaviour was exactly what he expected. She was barely seen around the shop, though usually when she was around, Smith knew very well from the faint sound of wood being carved in a backroom with the use of enchanted tools - as Oakleaf explained once. When she did show in person however, she didn’t want to talk and made that very clear.

For courtesy’s sake Smith would greet her but she’d either ignore it or just reply in an off-the-shoulder fashion before moving on with whatever she was doing and quickly leaving. It also wasn’t necessary to see the mare a lot for it to become rather clear that she was constantly having ‘days’. Sometimes she’d give Smith a look fitting of a pompous queen, looking down upon her filthy subject; other times she’d look positively mad with Smith or the world either because of his presence, the fact he’s looking at her, or some other ambiguous source of dismay. One of the other things she did however, Smith had to accept as a bit surprising: sometimes the mare didn’t look angry or dismissive, she stopped walking with every step carefully planted in a powerful stance, and even the resentfulness disappeared from her eyes and she became something that wasn’t anything Smith could quite put his hoof on yet in terms of description, but it was definitely not The Great and Powerful Trixie. Perhaps this other mare deep inside her was who Oakleaf actually employed? How could he possibly know she even existed before meeting her?

Colt Smith enjoyed playing along in this silent little role of a dramatized detective, but nonetheless, he couldn’t lie to himself. There was always a reason behind his interest in Oakleaf’s strange history. He would have liked it if it was simply a casual interest in the unlikely and mystical, but the truth was that he knew better than most that the toymaker and his assistant didn’t belong in this place. He knew it, and trying to act as if it would have been just a simple hunch kept bugging the back of his mind, throbbing in a small little room in his head where he tried to hide a hated truth for the past three years, since he settled down. A small, simple truth he wished with all his heart would be nothing, but a lie he made for himself.

The simple truth was: he knew that Trixie didn’t belong. How? There was but one in the entirety of Equestria aside from him who knew, and neither of them would ever reveal it. Smith couldn’t blame Trixie for being where she was. He couldn’t blame her for being a broken, resentful shadow of a mare, as opposed to the fiery personification of hate and vengeance who should have returned in the future to reclaim her lost pride. Trixie in her current state was a broken note in the melody of fate, a misstep on the stairway of action and reaction, a speck of sand, trapped above one too large to flow down the hourglass. She shouldn’t have been anything that Colt Smith wouldn’t have anticipated as a faint possibility for a long while, but he still had no idea how she could come to be where she was. The answer lied with Oakleaf, and his shrouded past. There had to be a reason, a clue, just anything that would have made it so that Oakleaf’s completely uninformed decision to employ her would make some sense. The silver lining of course was the mystery of it all, and the possibility to solve it!

On the otherhoof, there was a different lining to the same cloud, one Smith couldn’t decide whether was of gold or but of the fool’s variety. For years, he lived knowing things he wished he didn’t. Things like where Trixie’s place was in the world. If she could break free of that, then perhaps nothing is set in stone, and Colt Smith too is allowed to act freely, the only question remaining: “Should he?”

Exactly these sort of thoughts were the reason why he was considered a minority for his habit of thinking too deeply and too much about everything he came across. Perhaps he should have just done as most do and lived in the moment, something he partially feared to do.

Thinking on these things and his attitude towards life, something else started beating in Colt Smith’s thoughts, something that did not originate in his mind. He had a little piece of paper on his desk back home. A little, physically insignificant little paper pamphlet which served as an invitation for him. An invitation to a book club. An invitation from Twilight.

There rarely was a moment when the little, hated, throbbing truth in the back of his head had stopped and left him in a moment of tranquility and without the need to overthink and complicate things which could be simpler, but as usual when the librarian crossed his mind: That moment was right then.