Letter of Simple Observation
My most cordial greetings to Your Majesty, Princess Celestia.
I hope this letter finds you well. The space between here and Canterlot is no small distance. The mail travels slow, and the news even slower. Should word reach my ears that you have taken the time to read this, then oh happy day! I would stride with that much more spring in my step.
Beg pardon, I am ahead of myself. My name is Alchés. As you may have guessed by the name, the calligraphy, and the sealed parchment in which these words arrive to you, I am not a pony, nor am I even from Equestria. I hail from a distant land, one that does not have much interaction with your own. Why, then, do I send such a seemingly inconsequential letter to such an esteemed pony? I am no diplomat begging to negotiate, nor am I a businessmoose proposing an investment. Indeed, in the practical world of industry, I have no part. In civics, perhaps even less so. My creative works have earned me but a pinch of notoriety in my own land, and, unless the news travels even slower than I suspected, almost none in yours. Why, then, should you care?
I will say it plainly: I do not have a reason. This letter, specifically the writing of this letter, is more for me than it is for anymoose else. The sealing and sending, though necessary, was a selfish thing. It was merely the final act in a ritual born long before me, and shall no doubt continue after I am gone. I write for myself, but my works are for others. After all, what are words without a reader? I wish there were a more sensible way to say it.
If the heavens have favored me against the odds, and you have read this far into my letter, I can ask only one thing. Keep reading. I would love to say that its purpose will become clearer further down the page, but I cannot, because it will not. It would be a vain thing indeed to ask a reader, especially one of such greatness as yourself, to comprehend that which the writer cannot. Although, I am told you are wise. You are far wiser than me, no doubt. I am but a simple soul who comprehends only the most basic of truths. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I feel the urge to put these universal truths to paper, like a toddler with a crayon, proudly drawing a messy picture for his mother. The art is sloppy, but the intention is true. Perhaps you may find some meaning between the lines of incoherence.
In keeping with this, the theme of incongruity, I shall begin with what is very possibly an unrelated question: what is magic? A simple enough query with a far more complicated answer. A “normal” magic user might tell me that magic is a mystery. An enigma of power doing enigmatic things, channeled through the horn and controlled by the mind. A power mundane enough to be used for commonplace chores, but mysterious enough to escape proper understanding. The esteemed professors of Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns might proudly tell me that magic is a science. A force of nature that is both complex and ambiguous. An equation of labyrinthine proportions, merely brushed upon by the intimidated masses, and only really grasped by the truly intelligent. Physically, magic can only be used by one third of the pony population, and the number of those who specialize in it only dwindles from there. The number of those that sincerely understand it is even less.
The teachers are in no ways incorrect, but in the interest of revealing simple truth to my simple mind, allow me to relate my dilution of such a definition in its plainest form. Magic is the applied force of one’s imagination and conviction upon the world around them. Perhaps even plainer: magic is the user’s will made reality.
Though it may be vanity speaking, I find this self-created description to fit the bill much better. Not only does it vastly improve on a scale of intelligibility, but it is technically correct. Even the most humble of commonplace mages might tell me that I misunderstand, that I am oversimplifying. Perhaps I am. Certainly, the professors would accuse me of twisting the rules, of ignoring basic laws, of being a simpleton. Perhaps I am. However, one gains a new perspective when looking at the whole forest, rather than a single tree, and all it takes is some backing up. If I am a simpleton for enjoying the view, then so be it. When the mist of mysticism is gone, one finds a pleasing simplicity, a truth so obvious that one might think it strange that no-moose has ever noticed it before. The surprising fact is this: that anymoose can perform magic! Allow me to explain.
I am a traveler. I always have been. My wanderlust has led me all over the world, from the streets of Germaneigh to the deserts of the Buffalo Territories. It has led me here and there and back again, beyond the edges of the map, to places with no name. Finally, it led me to your own, the magnificent country of Equestria. Your land, might I say, is simply amazing. Never will I forget the rolling hills, the mountain vistas, the incredible cities (I speak, of course, of Canterlot itself), and most importantly, the wonderful ponies that live there. Your country’s beauty nearly outshines that of my homeland. I write this in the kindest of ways; no place surpasses Manetana in terms of magnificence and scale. However, there is one aspect in which Equestria performs far better. It is, as you may have guessed, in the dealings of magic. As I am sure you know, your whole land is steeped in it. Magic positively radiates from the ground, from the sky, and from the inhabitants therein. It is a given, it is a way of life. My meaning goes far beyond your magically powered devices, convenient and ingenious as they may be. I would almost say it is taken for granted, had I not supposed that taking it for granted would defeat the very purpose, and leave it dwindling. Unless a major change has happened in my absence, I happen to know that is not the case.
Far be it from me to proclaim myself some sort of expert on the subject. No, in fact, in the traditional sense, I am about as nonmagical as they come. There are some magekind among the moose, but for us, it is a fleeting thing. We do not have schools on the subject, and we do not aspire to magical proficiency.
That is not the only reason I am, or rather was, inept when it came to magic. If it was, my wanderlust would have cooled, and my life would have been unfathomably better. I would have had no purpose in putting quill to parchment, and no purpose in sending this letter. This is all a grand collaboration of my experiences, the climax of which took place in your wonderful Equestria. I am not sure that I could do it all again, but I am glad that what happened happened. Were somemoose to offer to take me back in time, to undo all my mistakes, I am sure I would decline, knowing my blunders have cultivated me into the happy moose I am today. Would I have received the same offer only a year ago, there is no doubt I would have accepted.
I was sick, you see. I had an illness, not of the body, but of the soul. My mind was plagued with a… with an issue, shall we say, an issue of most grievous implications. It felt as though it were a torturous cancer, malignant and pulsating with the worst kind of wrongness. Not unlike a cancer, it was growing. It was slow at first, and I did not see it for the problem it really was. I did not know at the time, but I can now say with a certainty that the growth was undoubtedly exponential. It was, as they say, a slippery slope, starting at an almost childish incline, and ending at the edge of a cliff from which there is no redemption. It sounds harsh, but it was true. If you left the oil slick and took to the open air, it was only seconds before your bones shattered against the remorseless canyon floor. And us moose, as you know, lack the wings to fly.
Forgive my vagueness. I dare not confess my sins, even to a demi-god. Know only that I am repentant.
It was a horrible, and indeed, a sinful illness, and all the more alluring for it. Playing in the mud with the pigs looks like fun, and perhaps it actually is fun for a brief while. One plays and plays and plays, until the sun goes down and they realize it’s not fun anymore. The playing stops, and everything is just fine. No harm has been done, and when was having fun ever a crime? The real retribution comes when one discovers that the filth will not rub clean, the stench will not come out, and the true color of a once proud coat is stained and faded. The true retribution comes when one discovers that no-moose ever wants to be around a creature so foul. The only ones who can stand to be around you are the pigs, and what comfort can they give? They never cared about you to begin with.
You do have pigs in your country, right? I just realized I’m not actually certain. Well, in the interest of salvaging that allegory, pigs are dirty, smelly creatures with dirty, smelly habits. However, I ask you do not misunderstand me or my people. I never thought playing in the mud with a pig looked like fun and neither do my associates, but supposedly it’s a saying. Who am I to question the wisdom of the ancients?
At any rate, it was bad, and it was only becoming worse. The illness transformed from a harmless diversion, to a favorite sin, to a bane of existence. My wanderlust became a symptom of my illness, but not before it spiraled out of my control. Eventually, my disease reached a pinnacle of sorts, a climax that shocked me into a proper state of mind, an acute awareness of how horrible my life had actually become. I knew something must be done. It happened all at once. I alienated my friends and family, all of whom only wanted to help and care for me. I was a fool, knowing to seek help, but seeking for it in all the wrong places. I did not want my loved ones to think badly of me, and so I did not go to them, which, ironically, only lessened their opinion of me. No, I would “find myself” in lands abroad. I would discover a miracle cure. I would return home as a model citizen, a veritable paladin in bright white armor. So, I became a traveler.
Needless to say, it did not happen that way. I walked and walked and walked. The strangers of the foreign lands held no solace for me, and in the scenery far and wide I found no peace. I appreciated fine works of art, hoping to find the inspiration to spark my recovery. I read every other book on the shelf of “classics”, and returned again to read the ones I had missed. I attended the seminars of the successful bodies in the world, and took meticulous notes on each one. I sought private help from gurus all across the land, and tried their tricks to the letter. None of it worked. All the wisdom of all the creatures in the world could not help me, for it was not wisdom I needed. I needed help. I needed magic.
Which brings me to my travels to your land, Your Majesty. It was the final place to visit on my journey, which had actually become less of a journey and more of a frustrating checklist. You must understand, by this time, I was ready to give up and give in. Nothing, it seemed, could heal me. My efforts by now were lackluster. The only reason I came was so that I could say that I had been absolutely everywhere, and so I could claim that there was nothing that could cure me, and that no-moose could brew such a medicine. So that I could proclaim my defeat to be total. So that I could justify my despair.
And what despair it was, Princess! The darkness is nigh indescribable! The hole in my heart was like a sucking wound, wide and tinged black at the edges. At times, I could have sworn to actually physically feel it. It was like a barbed arrow, stuck in my chest, causing a passive yet horrible pain when left untouched, but stinging all the harder when I tried to pull it out. Not a physician in the world could save me. Or so I thought.
I planned to visit Equestria’s capital, your very own Canterlot, stay a few days, and then leave. I arrived, I entered my hotel room, and I stayed there. I didn’t really expect much, though in the back of my mind, I had this hope, this cautious hope that this would be the place. I hoped that somemoose, or somepony, would break the hinges off of my door, barge in unannounced, yank me off of my lazy hooves, and slap a bandage on that broken heart of mine. A week went by. Of course, it did not happen. The sequence had become simple action and reaction by now; I arrived in a new place, I hoped for something good to happen to me, and despaired when it didn’t. It was pathetic, really.
So I left, noticing with only my peripheral vision the magnificence I had simply neglected to enjoy. On the way to and from Canterlot, there is a charming little village that I am sure you are quite aware of: Ponyville. The train goes right through it, and so on my way to Canterlot, I had no need to stay. In fact, I’m almost positive I was asleep when we passed it the first time. The second time, however, was much different. The train broke down.
No doubt born from the bitterness of my heart, I ranted and railed at the foolishness of the poor conductor, who likely had no idea what the problem with the train was, and had no hoof in its failing. He calmly informed the passengers that they would have it up and running by the following afternoon, and that the only option was to stay in Ponyville.
All of the passengers left the train. Almost immediately, this crazy little pink pony came galloping. Or perhaps a more appropriate term is “bouncing”. In any case, she was positively glowing with excitement. She wore an expression of shock upon seeing us all, which was soon followed by an enormous grin that completely dominated her features. Her incredible elation seemed to defy the laws of space and time, as she enthusiastically greeted each and every one of us, holding a small but intimate conversation before moving on to the next. I was last. She told me she had never seen a real live moose before. Not many ponies have. I tried to brush her off, but she would have none of it. I even tried to run away, but after pulling some maneuvers that I could have sworn were physically impossible, I sullenly answered all her questions.
My name is Alchés. My birthday is September 7th. My favorite color is navy blue. No, I’m not from around here, I’m visiting from Manetana. Yes, I suppose that makes me new. Yes, I suppose I am being cranky. No, I’m not going to say why. No, I don’t know what you do for new ponies.
I know they say that hindsight is twenty-twenty, but even then, I should have seen the answer from miles away. New ponies, or in this case, new moose get parties!
She threw each and every one of the stranded passengers, a number that easily totaled above one hundred, a welcoming party. At first, I wanted nothing to do with it, but I was low on bits, and any kind of free food was fine by me, even if the pony involved was somewhat annoying. It was completely unplanned and unrehearsed, and yet when we arrived, there was food and cake and candy enough for all. She even went out of her way to make a dish from my native land. It wasn’t very good, but she tried.
I entered that party, ready to hate it at the first sign of discontent. I was still sick with the illness, and the illness made me crave hatred, made me crave the company of mean spirits just so I could tear them down and, in turn, be torn down. My cravings were to be frustrated. Everypony was so kind, and so friendly. Especially her. At this party, though there was more than enough food, I felt like I was starving. What I felt was a painful burn, but also a pleasant one, almost like the kind of feeling one gets when exercising. I suppressed every smile and stifled every laugh, but deep down inside, I felt the very first stirrings of it, the great healer. Magic.
The hole closed just a little.
It was late, and ponies were returning to the train, promised by the conductor that they could sleep aboard. That pink little pony noticed I was still grumpy, and offered to let me stay with her instead. Once again, I tried to brush her off. She was, once again, insistent. I grudgingly accepted her goodwill. She took me in, introduced me to the landlords (a friendly couple; I could tell by the way they reacted that I was not the first that she had ‘adopted’), and gave me a separate room to stay in. The bed was too small, but I was restless that night for another reason: I could not forget that feeling, wonderful and burning.
Nevertheless, I fell asleep. Had I not, this whole thing might not have happened, for I awoke the next morning to find I had missed the train. The engineers were able to fix it in the nighttime, and with all the passengers but me aboard, they did not think to wait. They left without me.
I was furious. At the train, at the conductor, and especially at the pink little pony that had been so selfless in taking me in. I left in a fury, but my fury did not outweigh my need. I soon returned, not because I was apologetic, but because I was out of money. Petty of me, I know. My coin pockets were empty, and the train had left with my ticket. It is no small fee to get back to a place so far as Manetana. I stayed and asked for work. It was a baker’s shop, and I was by no means an accomplished baker, but they still accepted, allowing me to assist and do odd jobs.
Every morning I would come downstairs for work with a frown on my face, and every morning she would try to make me smile. Sometimes, it almost worked. Sometimes, I felt that magic working to close that hole in my chest. Still, I regularly sequestered myself to my rented room and wallowed in stupid self-pity. It wasn’t until she used her, for lack of variation upon the word, insistence to drag me outside and introduce me to her friends. I was about as cheerful as a storm cloud at midnight, but upon her insistence, her friends tried very hard to reach out and provide companionship.
They tried so hard, and for so long. They brought me to activities and practically forced me to have fun. And do you know what? It worked.
It was not just because I had fun. In fact, I was almost wary of having fun, since the last time I had this much, it ended with horrific results. It wasn’t even because they showed me genuine kindness, a sentiment I realized I had not seen for years. It wasn’t an action that involved me at all. It was them, it was all them. It was their adventures, and their trust, and their intimacy. It was their willingness to help each other, no matter the cost. It was their absolute and irrevocable friendship.
It stirred a feeling in me, Princess, a feeling I was certain I would never feel again. The illness was fading, and it was the feeling of wholeness. The change was gradual, but time passed, and one day, I simply knew it. I was healed! Yes, the illness was gone, and only now do I realize that no medicine in the world could have cured it. It was magic. The hole was absent, being replaced, or rather filled, with something so very wonderful.
The days became weeks. The weeks became months. I both observed and participated. I baked them dishes from my homeland. I went on adventures. I lived. I loved, and was loved in return. I learned about magic.
Eventually, the time came. I knew I was healed, and I knew I had to face the family and friends I left behind. I spoke some final words to them, each in private. I thanked them for everything. I told them about the magic that healed me. Words were not enough. One of them, whom I understand is a personal student of yours, said that she understood. She put to words the thoughts I intended to speak, but could not form. She was the one who, after hearing my tale, told me I should write this letter. I did not promise her that I would, but as you can see before you, I did. If you could, when it is convenient for you, tell her that I did, I would be grateful.
Though not quite the paragon I aimed to be, I bid a bittersweet farewell, and left for home.
Which brings me to now. Are you still reading? Have you found meaning yet? I suppose by now it looks like I accidentally spilled my emotions onto parchment. I can’t honestly deny that. Your student was so much better at this. Perhaps I can still redeem some coherence if I try hard enough.
Look back on the letter, and remember what I said about magic. About what the true definition is. I shall write it again. “Magic is the user’s will made reality.” One of the problems with this definition, I now suppose, is that my will can be made reality in the most mundane of fashions. I may will this pebble to be moved, and it is therefore moved, if by a simple tap of the hoof. I may will this letter to be written, and it is therefore written, if only by my steady grip on the quill. Would you be irritated if I changed it again, Princess? Even your patience must have limits. I ask you only suffer one more revision. “Magic is the user’s will made reality, performed to make possible extraordinary things.”
That pink pony, along with all of her friends, had wills and personalities of incredible strength. Only two of them were unicorns, but all of them could use magic. Upon reflection, I’d say that most, if not all, of the ponies of Ponyville could use magic. It bursts forth from them like a brilliant light, no less bright than the midday sun. The light I speak of is their friendship. It is a mighty force, powerful, motivating, and effective in the real world. The description brings only one other word to mind.
And why do I insist upon this, not simply to laud the actions of my friends and saviors, but to say it was some form of magic? Because it is true. I may not be the wisest moose, but goodness knows I’m one for reason.
The user’s will. My friend’s will. It became reality, made manifest in myself, and in the most extraordinary manner. It did an impossible thing, it cured my illness. One would sooner crush mountains and tame seas than forcibly remove such a wicked tumor, and yet here was a carefree earth pony, who, without hesitance, banished the vile thing. She had but to show a little friendship. What force in the world could perform such a feat, were it not magic? I submit that no such thing exists.
The most wonderful thing? Again, I will say it: any creature in any country in any world can do magic, because any creature can show love, and any creature can show friendship.
And friendship, as we know, is magic.
Most sincerely yours,
Astikus Alchés
