The sudden snap of the axle cracking was both shocking and deafening. As it fully fractured and the carriage lurched, the occupants inside were severely jolted. Thankfully, as well-appointed and as opulent as the carriage was, neither of the two passengers —a young earth pony mare, austerely garbed as a noble’s maid, and the young filly noble herself— were bruised, let alone injured.

“What was that? What happened?” the young filly, possibly no older than nine, asked in a delicate, cultured tone, doing her best to hide the anxiety she felt.

“I do not know, Miss Dupois,” her maid admitted. “Let me see if the footpony knows.”

Before she could summon the footpony, he had already opened the door, deeply bowing as he then addressed the young filly noble. “My apologies, Miss Dupois,” he servilely began. “But your coach has broken an axle, and is unable to continue.”

The very elegantly-dressed young filly delicately scrunched her muzzle, even as intense dread throbbed inside her. “But I simply must be there on time!” she announced. “Mother has demanded my presence there for a recital!”

The footpony tried hiding a wince at that. Although nopony could have predicted the axle breaking, that would not matter to Madam Avoir Dupois. If her daughter failed to arrive on time . . . heads . . . would . . . roll.

Frighteningly enough, there were whispered rumors of that being literal rather than figurative.

Saffron, Miss Dupois’ personal maid, nibbled her lower lip. She, too, was very much aware of Madam Avoir Dupois’ capricious, and volatile, temper. And if Saffron’s charge was late for her appointment, the earth pony maid knew that it wouldn’t be just herself being splashed with the brush of “disappointment” . . . Miss Dupois, herself, would be included. And it wouldn’t matter one thin wooden bit that neither of them were at fault, or, indeed, had anything to do about it.

“Miss Dupois?” she hesitatingly murmured.

The young unicorn filly coolly turned a gaze to her maid, one brow lifted up in disapproval. “Yes, Saffron? You wished to say something?”

Holding back the urge to swallow, or even lick suddenly dry lips, Saffron nodded. “Yes Ma’am.” Normally Miss Dupois was a very likeable, and agreeable, young filly. But under certain kinds of pressure —specifically, whenever potentials existed at disappointing Madam Avoir Dupois— she could be every bit as dangerous as her Mother was. “The salon is only eight blocks away. We . . . we could walk there.”

“Walk? Walk?” The footpony discreetly removed himself from any potential splashes his way. Miss Dupois’ voice had turned both silken and dangerous. “Are you suggesting that I walk, like that common clay outside is doing?”

“I . . . I just don’t want to see Madam Avoir Dupois disappointed,” she tremulously replied. And, like that, Miss Dupois’ expression changed from offended and insulted . . . to fear.

“No,” she whispered. “No, I certainly don’t want to disappoint M-mother.”



Beatrix was no stranger to walking. Mother’s home was certainly big enough that simply navigating from bedroom to bathroom, to kitchen to conservatory, from solar to spa, required quite a bit of walking. But walking there, or in the stately residences of those in Mother’s social circle, didn’t require gymnastics to avoid distasteful contact with those of baseborn blood. Or, worse, those of the lesser races . . . like unicorns and pegasi.

And these sidewalks simply teemed with throngs of those unwashed masses.

She was quite familiar, of course, with the less-fortunate unicorn and pegasus races. They made excellent unskilled labor, after all. Naturally, totally unsuitable for refined positions such as personal maids, valets, chefs, butlers, and similar positions. However, normally she never had to worry about being jostled by bumpkins and rubes.

Wrinkling her nose —which was lifted up to the sky— she disdainfully sniffed. I’m going to smell like a barn by the time I arrive!

Now what? she huffed, seeing an unmoving crowd just in front. None of them were moving, they were just standing there, blocking the right of way. “Saffron . . . see to moving . . . that,” she gestured at the crowd, “out of our way.”

Before her maid could even begin making the attempt, a loud voice projected out: “Come one, come all! Prepare to be mystified and mesmerized! Baffled and bewildered! Amazed and . . . oh darn . . . what’s a good word starting with “A”?

The crowd burst out laughing; how crude and uncouth!

“Come and see the amazing, the awe-inspiring . . . Hey! There’s an “A” word!” and again the crowd laughed, “Madam Mythic!”

What in the world?

“I want to see,” the now-curious unicorn informed her maid.

Saffron mentally sighed, understanding that “I want to see” actually meant “clear a path”. However, much to her surprise, except for a few grumbles, most everypony shifted enough until, at last, Saffron and her charge was near the front.

Beatrix . . . wasn’t exactly impressed. It was just a common street performer. And, most likely, a grifter, or another kind of ne’er-do-well, since it was a unicorn: an older mare, flamboyantly garbed, an ornate turban perched atop her head, and standing behind a small, four-legged, portable table just as garishly decorated as she was.

At least she knows how to wind one correctly, Beatrix sniffed as she glanced at the elaborate headgear. I suppose that’s not too shabby, coming from a yokel, after all.

“I like juggling. Does anypony else like juggling? Accountants, keep quiet!” the undoubtedly itinerant “performer” called out. Beatrix sighed as chuckles broke out at the lowbrow joke. She was about to disdainfully sneer when . . .

“Drat! I seem to have misplaced my juggling ball. Oh, wait! There it is!”

The astonished unicorn filly couldn’t help it: her jaw dropped, and not even years of unrelenting training could stop that from happening. For Madam Mythic had simply reached up, reached behind her ear . . . and now had a bright red ball on her upturned hoof.

Tossing it up in the air she began arcing the singular ball back and forth between hooves, loudly —and quite tunelessly— humming. After about ten seconds of just “juggling” one ball, Madam Mythic blurted out, “Oops! Knew I was forgetting something!” Beatrix felt her jaw drop again, for where there had been one ball . . . now there were two.

“Let’s play charades,” she said with a teasing grin, as now three balls were now orbiting in a stately cadence.

“Pawn shop!” somepony yelled out, as everypony then laughed.

Now there were four balls. “Let’s spice this up a bit,” Madam Mythic grinned . . . and then the crowd “Oooohed!” as, instead of four balls, there were now four pins.

Beatrix found herself being mesmerized by the methodical revolutions. But, even more so, by the act itself. Deep down inside, the enthralled filly was sensing the complexity of the performance: the mechanics of the act itself, but also the talented —and it was undeniably considerable talent, indeed— way Madam Mythic was not just entertaining, but managing to draw her audience into her act as well.

Pins now became hoops, a much more difficult medium to juggle, but Madam Mythic smoothly kept up a running patter as the hoops spun and flashed in the air. Hoops now became pins again, then . . .

“Oops!” The crowd burst out in laughter as pins turned into . . . fish?? Only for a second or two before becoming balls again, but Beatrix found herself blinking. Those had been fish!

“Look out!” Madam Mythic ‘warned’, as one of the juggling balls zoomed out over the crowd’s head, somehow turning around and zooming back. No few of the ponies had ducked, then sheepishly grinned at having done so. Four balls kept circling up and down, up and down, with a ball now-and-then ‘straying’ out over the crowd’s head. Until . . .

One of the balls arced out just inches above the unicorn filly’s head. Without any conscious thought, Beatrix reached a foreleg up . . . caught the ball on her hoof . . . and effortlessly returned it to Madam Mythic, so smoothly that the juggler almost faltered her cadence.

Almost.

There was a scatter of applause, but Beatrix was only distantly aware of that. Her full focus was on the up-and-down of the balls . . . so much so that she was completely unaware of the burgeoning sensations building inside her.

Madam Mythic grinned, not at all upset. “Ready?” she called out, and before the unicorn filly was truly conscious of the words . . .

A ball was lofted towards Beatrix. Again, with no true thought, she simply cupped it atop a hoof before sending it back . . . as a second ball was sent her way.

Before Beatrix knew it, six balls were being passed back and forth between them. In a way that she could never describe, it was as if she could see not just the path they were taking, but the paths they could take, as well. Bright merry laughter bubbled from her, purple eyes sparkling in delight. All her fears, all her despair and misery . . . for this moment were washed clean of her.

Madam Mythic almost dropped the pin as it tumbled towards her. She hadn’t done that! Her eyes widened as, one after another, a bright red ball was lofted to the unicorn filly . . . and a gaily striped pin was returned in its stead.

A minute later, and Madam Mythic started collecting, one at a time, each pin as it tumbled to her, each one somehow just . . . vanishing. And as the last one vanished, Madam Mythic stepped forward and, in a loud voice, called out, “Fillies and Gentlecolts, I give to you the true star of the show!” At that, she gestured towards the stunned unicorn filly.

The crowd starting applauding; not the genteel, soft ovation of those of good breeding, but the thunderous, hoof-stomping, hoof-clapping, whistling hullabaloo of the masses. That . . . that was . . .

It felt good.

Sudden warmth, like a quickly expanding inner fire, almost had her legs buckle. She felt unaccountably weak and dizzy. It seemed to last forever, yet, at the same time, was over almost before she knew it. Shaking her head most indecorously Beatrix became aware of the silence, the loud applause of just seconds ago now gone. Alarmed, the anxious filly stared at her maid, who had the oddest, softest smile on her face, even though there seemed to be melancholy as well. Before she could become truly anxious, her head whipped back around, staring at Madam Mythic, who had an absolutely dazzling smile.

“Congratulations, soul sister!”

Huh? “Congratulations?” Congratulations for what? And what does she mean, “soul sister”?

She was absolutely stunned when the crowd erupted in cheers again.

“Cutie mark!” “She got her cutie mark!” “Didja see that?” “I don’t believe it!”

Wha? Cutie mark? Who got their cutie ma——

Oh!

Craning her neck, Beatrix could see the cutie mark that now adorned her once-bare flanks. A huge, unseemly grin spread across her face. Mother was going to be so proud!

It was pitch dark, and utterly quiet, in her locked Contemplation Closet, the only sound the occasional soft sniffle. Beatrix had been taught, long ago, that tears were a sign of weakness; they detracted from the meditation required to learn from her errors, her mistakes . . . her failures.

And there had been so very many of those.

Nevertheless, even with the experience gained from harsh, relentless lessons, this time she simply couldn’t stop the sporadic sniffles from breaking free.

She knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she’d seen the last of her maid. Just like the others.

She had been so certain that M-mother would finally be proud of her defective daughter. Being born the only unicorn in a noble family whose pedigree of pure earth pony lineage extended back to The Founding had placed a terrible burden on her family, a stigma of shame. But, at last! Beatrix had finally found her place; had discovered her true talent, and had finally set her hooves firmly on the path of recognition and success —of proving herself worthy of all the sacrifices M-mother had made in behalf of her flawed and deficient offspring.

Beatrix had enjoyed happiness like she’d never, ever before experienced . . . for all of thirty minutes. And she’d been frozen in terror at the absolute blazing fury in M-mother’s eyes. Closing her eyes —not that she sensed any difference in her Contemplation Closet, eyes open or closed— she softly wept herself to sleep.

Had she only known, then, of the grief, the long, non-stop series of dashed hopes and dreams, of pain, loss, and failures, that her cutie mark had heralded . . .

She wouldn’t have wanted to run away . . .

. . . she would have wanted to cut her throat.

Surging awake out of a turmoil of fear, terror, hopelessness and despair, Trixie choked back a cry. Never —never ever ever!— did Trixie awake making any sound. Noises were dangerous.

Sounds drew attention to you.

With the ease of long practice —an ease paid in coin of terror and fear and survival— Trixie instantly banished the groggy cobwebs, tensed as she stretched out her senses, seeking dangers and perils. Who-what-where-when-why-how tumbled through her mind as she analyzed and sorted . . .

. . . and sensed, throbbing deep inside her core, pulsing with life, with purpose . . .

“No!” she screamed in futile denial, struggling to lunge to her hooves, to run off, gallop off, knowing even as that adrenalin surged inside that, no matter how far, how fast . . .

. . . she could never, ever outrun her cutie mark.

“Shhhh . . . shhhh . . . don’t be afraid,” came the wide-awake, and not-at-all groggy —and also very familiar— voice. Trixie stiffened for a moment, startled, then, before that had worn off . . . realized it wasn’t just a blanket covering her.

Trixie “swam” with her hooves, trying to wriggle out from under Twilight’s sheltering wing, when she bumped into a smaller mass behind her.

“Jeez Trixie,” game a mock-grumpy growl, “You don’t hafta squish me yanno!”

Twilight’s horn softly started glowing, just enough to barely dispel the shadows in the room, and in that faint pink duskiness Trixie sensed, more than saw, Twilight and Spike bracketing her, and sounding much more awake than anypony having just been woken up should sound . . . assuming they’d been sleeping to begin with.

Her heart was pounding, her stomach churning with nausea; covering her face with her hooves, she started whimpering.

“We’re not going to pry. We’re not going to talk, or feed you platitudes,” Twilight softly, soothingly murmured, settling her wing over the huddled, trembling cerulean unicorn.

“We’re just going to watch over you,” Spike rumbled.

“And keep you safe,” Twilight gently promised.

A harsh, mocking bark of laughter. “Safe? Safe? How can you protect Trixie from herself?” she bitterly spat before tensing even tighter and starting to weep again.

Twilight had seldom felt so helpless in her entire life. She didn’t know what to do!

“Because . . . you’ll never be alone again,” Spike softly rumbled. “Never.”

“Never,” Twilight softly affirmed.

Her weeping only ceased when she finally fell back to sleep, too exhausted, and too drained, to fight slumber any longer.

There had been quite a few curious stares as, in a tight fireball, the scroll appeared above her head. Supporting it in a light pink aura, Twilight had quickly unrolled it and, even faster, had read it. Her expression had tensed for a moment, but, by now, Twilight had uncomfortably learned that, as a Princess, she was under constant scrutiny. Keeping her expression completely relaxed —not wanting to spawn any rumors or speculations— she simply rerolled it and, with a soft pop and flash, sent it to her bed stand.

Several minutes later, hopefully long enough to disassociate the (past) scroll with her (present) announcement, Twilight started passing the word that Trixie, having overextended herself, was not up to any encore performance or accolades.

Having just seen the prodigious exhibition, and possible profligate display of magicks and energies, that explanation completely satisfied most everypony.

Those with foals, young colts and fillies —Silver Spoon and her parents being the exception— were the first to seek hearth and home . . . and bed. And since it had been a long, jam-packed, fun-filled, eventful day, contagious yawns started breaking out everywhere, spreading like wildfire as yawns always do. In ones and twos, in small groups and in pairs, ponies approached their Princess of Friendship to express their thanks, to request passing on their well-wishes and appreciation to Trixie Lulamoon, and simply to wish Twilight a good night. Within the half-hour of the first departure, the only ponies left were Twilight and Princess Luna, along with Silver Spoon and her parents.

Applejack, Rarity, Pinkie Pie, Rainbow Dash, and Fluttershy had stayed until almost everypony else had departed, not exactly hiding, per se, as much as remaining at a discreet remove. However, once Twilight was (reasonably) alone, her friends gravely paced over, stopping several paces away. Lifting a brow at her friends Twilight just waited. Rainbow Dash was fidgeting; Fluttershy was ducking her head, cheeks softly glowing; Rarity looked uncomfortable but determined, as did Applejack; Pinkie Pie simply looked her usual self, if just a bit subdued.

Twilight wasn’t in the mood for “kissing-and-making-up”. Although Spike’s message had smoothed the edge off her anxiety, she was in desperate need to see for herself that her friend was alright. And if her other friends had approached her with the intent of extending an olive branch, well, then . . . they’d better start doing so, for Twilight was not about to just let them off the hook that easily, letting bygones be bygones.

Taking a deep breath, Applejack placed her hat over her chest. “Ain’t no easy way t’ say this,” she started, gazing at the ground. “But,” she lifted her head and gazed at Twilight, eye-to-eye. “Y’all were right, an’ we were wrong. Dead wrong.”

Twilight just stood there, pinions lightly ruffling in a gentle breeze, contemplating each of them, one at a time, in utter silence, her gaze every bit as regal as Their Royal Majesties. Rainbow Dash flushed, looking uncomfortable as she shifted her weight back and forth on her hooves; Rarity sucked her lower lip between her teeth and flushed, too, but she kept her head up and eyes on her friend.

“Yes. You were.”

Those three words cut them like knives, all the worse because Twilight had spoken them in an utterly neutral tone. All but Rainbow Dash winced at that; she bristled. Bristled, feathers ruffling, her chest inflating, then . . .

“Ah, Tartarus,” she gusted, visibly deflating. “I can’t speak for the others Twilight, but I deserved that.”

“Ayup, me too.”

“Indeed. Myself, as well.”

“Me, too,” almost an inaudible whisper.

“Me, too,” Pinkie Pie sadly agreed, shoulders slumping. “It shouldn’t have taken seeing Trixie stand up to bullies, in defense of Berry Pu—, erm, Berry Shine and Ruby Pinch, for me to see what you’d been seeing all this time.”

“Say whut now?”

“Oh!” Pinkie brightly chirped. “Did I forget to tell you about it? See, it was like this . . .”

By the time Pinkie Pie finished her (only slightly embellished) tale, the other four Element Bearers looked even more discomfited and ashamed. Twilight, meanwhile, was astonished; Trixie had never even mentioned anything like this to her!

Everypony was startled when Applejack started softly chuckling. “Mah oh mah!” she chortled. “Chased those two outta town with bees, huh.”

Pinkie Pie grinned ear to ear, as the others —except for Twilight— started chuckling as well.

“Twilight darling,” Rarity finally spoke up. “While we can’t change the past, what’s happened is not just ‘water under the bridge’ as t’were. We don’t want to just simply sweep it under the rug and pretend that nothing had happened.” The other four soberly nodded. “But, while we can’t change the past, we can promise to make sure the future, from this point on, is very different.”

Twilight finally did smile as all five Pinkie Promised that vow. “Thanks girls,” she fervently said, as they all huddled together in a group hug.

After saying their farewells —which took another few minutes— the five finally took their leave, slowly ambling back towards Ponyville and quietly talking about the day’s events . . . with, predictably, Applejack and Rainbow Dash being a bit more, ahh, energetic in rehashing and replaying the competitions in which they’d participated.

“Hey Fluttershy!” Rainbow Dash brightly called out, noticing the pink pegasus had been, not just silent for some time, but also looking a bit pensive and preoccupied. “Feather for your thoughts!”

Rainbow Dash wasn’t the only one of the group to falter in their steps when Fluttershy finally answered, as they were, one-and-all, just expecting their friend’s standard, shy deflection. But that wasn’t at all what they got.

“I was just thinking about what Pinkie Pie had said,” she explained, and, although her voice was the familiar low, slow and soft cadence, there was no trace of reticence in her response. “That it shouldn’t have taken her seeing Trixie stand up to those meanies for her to see Trixie the way Twilight always has. That made me wonder . . .” coming to a stop she paused, then, when her friends had also stopped . . .

“How did we miss seeing, for years, what Twilight has always seen? And why did it take bullies, or fireworks, before we saw the same?”

Unlike that absolutely wonderful, captivating —no pun intended— night ten days ago, this time Twilight allowed herself to sleep sleep. Unfortunately, while she might have allowed herself that freedom, she wasn’t quite able to take advantage of that emancipation. So when Trixie’s respiration started increasing, as her pulse gradually picked up, Twilight was immediately aware of that. Lingering grogginess was blasted into nothingness, unable to withstand the anxious alicorn’s swiftly burgeoning angst.

Once she’d said good night to Princess Luna —each tightly hugging the other before parting— Twilight literally raced for the castle doors, almost colliding with the guards as she skidded to a stop. Before she could say a word, the guards simply gestured, pointing towards a corridor.

Hallway after corridor, there was always a guardpony waiting there to guide her, until, at long last —and much faster than it felt at the time— she stopped at the final intersection, barrel heaving in exertion, having been stopped by another guardpony.

(Much later, it would eventually occur to her that every one of them had been thestrals, and, with the exception of the main doorway guards, all of whom had been off-duty)

“She is down there, Your Highness” the off-duty thestral guard had softly murmured, and then she had gestured to another guard standing in an extremely watchful position just outside one of the doors that lined that corridor. “Spike is with her.”

“Thank you,” she murmured back, before quietly pacing down to the indicated guard before coming to a stop there.

Leaning forward a bit, the self-appointed door sentry murmured just as softly as the previous guard had done, “Your Highness, Spike is inside with Miss Trixie.” He then informed Twilight about what he had seen and heard, including the measures Spike had taken and the supplies he had collected. And then, his expression quite distressed, he told Twilight the last clear thing he’d heard from within: Trixie’s heartrending wail, ‘Trixie . . . Trixie just wants to die!’

It felt as if her heart had plummeted to her hooves, hearing that. What? Why? Unanswered questions furiously churned in her mind. That had been an amazing, astounding, unbelievably marvelous, flawless fireworks exhibition. Twilight simply couldn’t understand what about that could be the trigger for that pitiful, pitiable plaint! How does anypony go from brilliant success to absolute bleakness?

Terror; Fear; Anxiety; Inadequacy; Ineptitude; long-familiar emotions rising to new heights. Nausea churned in her belly. Her ears tightly slanted back. Her pupils pinpointed. Her pulse and respiration rapidly increased. I’m not a therapist! A psychiatrist! This is serious! Real serious! This isn’t a game, this is life-and-death! This is real! She needs help! Real help! But . . .

Twilight’s frenzied thoughts slithered to a halt before a single thread unraveled from that rat’s nest of self-unconfidence and fears. Yes, she probably needs professional help. But they aren’t here, and I am. And I’m her friend.

Between the resources expended in pre-performance anxiety and jitters, the actual performance itself, and finally the post-performance breakdown, by the time Twilight carefully nudged the door open, Trixie was so enervated and out of it that she might as well have been unconscious. She never stirred as Twilight —very gently, very tenderly— swaddled her in an enveloping levitation spell. Then —as Spike followed along, informing Twilight in a low murmur of all that had happened after the guard had pointed out to him where Trixie was— she carried her to the guest suite closest to her own Suite (as big and complex as her sleeping rooms were, they deserved capitalization). Twilight was perfectly happy with ensconcing her friend in her own bed and bedroom, but worried that doing so might do more harm than good; there was the very real possibility that the prideful-self-supporting unicorn would misinterpret Twilight’s doing so as charity, noblesse largesse, or even pity.

In addition to the burden of the emotions Twilight was carrying was the dull, smoldering anger she felt towards, and with, Princess Celestia. My friend is suffering! she silently fumed. You have the answers! You know what’s going on! And you. Won’t. Tell. Me!!

With Spike’s help, they soon had the torpid unicorn tucked into bed. Spike had started tiptaloning out but stopped at a swift, sharp, imperious gesture from Twilight, indicating that she wanted him at one side of Trixie as she took the other. His heart swelled with that honor, grateful to do whatever was in his power to repay his deep debt to Trixie for the honor she had shown him.

Thankfully, he had no idea of what had partially prompted Twilight’s decision. Similar to her concern that Trixie could possibly misinterpret kindness and concern with charity or pity, she was equally concerned over the potential misinterpretation of waking up and discovering Twilight sleeping with her.

Cheeks furiously blushing as Twilight mentally clarified to herself, Sleep sleeping, not, ah . . . “sleep” sleeping.

Although . . .

Once she had her tucked into bed between Spike and herself, Twilight gently covered Trixie with a wing . . . well, covered her as much as possible, that is. Trixie was, after all, a full-grown mare, and Twilight’s wings weren’t exactly substantial.

Trixie had slept like the dead for most of the night, only rousing the one time. For a moment, Twilight truly feared Trixie was going to bolt, but between the two of them, she and Spike somehow had calmed her enough that she was unable to resist the enervation that hauled her back down into the embrace of slumber.

But now she was waking again, and —again— Twilight was quickly panicking. It was bad enough understanding that her friend had suffered some sort of breakdown —and, most likely, would still be swallowed in the depths of that despair when she finally did rouse. But Twilight didn’t, at all, know what had triggered that, or why. If “A-squared plus B-squared equaled C-squared”, and you only had the value of one variable, you couldn’t solve for the actual values for the other two. And since all Twilight had was “(unknown)what-plus-(unknown)why equaled breakdown” . . .

Her pupils dilated, then pinpointed. Her coat started shivering; spasmodically twitching. And then, as Trixie swiftly roused to full consciousness, she started tensing and twitching, her eyes dilated, then pinpointed.

And when they each noticed the others’ expressions and reactions . . .

A very audible, and very exasperated, snort pricked its way through their hypermania, shocking them both partially back into the here-and-now. “Seriously?” Another, semi-disdainful, snort. “Seriously? You know something? You two were made for each other.”

Wide, shocked eyes, —both purple— stared as the small, obviously miffed-yet-also-mildly-amused, dragon standing on the floor at the side of the bed, front paws fisted and at his hips. “You’re like vinegar and baking soda in a closed bottle; you know that?” he declared, as his tail slowly whipped back and forth behind him.

While that simile might have passed over the heads of most other ponies . . . Both Twilight and Trixie were utterly shocked as snorty little giggles bubbled up inside them. Then they both, one at a time, rocked back in shock as Spike stabbed a talon in their direction. “You,” —at Twilight— “and you” —at Trixie— “need to eat. I’ll be bringing breakfast up in thirty minutes. Don’t be late for it.”

“Trixie . . . Trixie is not hungry,” the cerulean unicorn whispered. Her eyes widened as she got immediate —and simultaneous— responses:

Twilight: “Just give in; you’re not going to win this. He’s been around me too long”
Spike: “Doesn’t matter. You’re still going to eat. You expended a lot of resources performing last night, magickal as well as physical and emotional.”

Twilight confirmed, sotto voce, “Told you.”

Now he folded his forearms across his chest, tail lashing, one hind paw metronomically tapping, emerald orbs quite steely as Spike focused his gaze on Twilight. Trixie’s jaw dropped as Twilight seemed to wilt under that stare . . . and then he swiveled his eyes and bored them into hers.

Swallowing hard, Trixie swiped her lips with her tongue, feeling herself wilt. “OK,” she whispered, sounding —unbeknownst to her— a lot like Fluttershy at the moment.

“Thirty minutes,” he repeated, shaking a talon at them, before turning about and departing.

The door closed behind him with a soft click. Eyes still enormously rounded, Trixie turned her head to stare at Twilight. The stunned unicorn just blinked as Twilight sheepishly advised, “Well . . . you heard him.” The bed shifted as she descended to the floor. “The bathroom is this way,” she stated. “We’d better hurry; we don’t want to be late.”

Outside the door, in the hallway, Spike paused, took a deep, deep breath . . . gusted it out as he slumped back against the wall. “Lava and magma!” he fervently whispered, shuddering a moment at his presumptuousness . . . well, sort of “presumptuousness”, at any road. Audacity, perhaps? Cheekiness? A grin spread across his face at the cornucopia of synonyms available. You didn’t grow up with Twilight Sparkle without becoming one erudite little dragon, nosirriebob!

Smothering semi-manic giggles lest he be overheard, and thus ruin the effect he’d so-far inspired, Spike quickly jogged down the hall towards the kitchen.

Manes and tails still slightly droopy from dampness, Twilight and Trixie had just entered the guest suite’s small dining room as the front door opened. Easing his way inside, and carrying a tray far too big for him to have been carrying, Spike grunted with effort as he half-balanced, half-carried, the heaped tray inside.

“Spike,” Twilight softly chided, her voice more tender than scolding, “Here. Let me help.” Moments later, surrounded in a pink aura, the well-laden tray floated over to the dining table before settling there. But that was all Twilight did, extinguishing her horn once the tray was safely on the table. This was Spike's "show", and she wasn't about to go sticking her hoof in where it didn't belong.

Gesturing with her horn for Trixie to take a seat, Twilight followed in kind, seating herself at the table. Had Trixie not been so drained, and across so many levels —physical, mental, emotional, and magickal— she might have gathered wits and determination and beat a hasty, if indecorous, retreat. But, because her resources were virtually nil, she allowed herself to be chivvied about.

Trixie couldn’t have told anypony, afterwards, what, exactly, she’d had for breakfast, for she’d eaten quite mechanically. However, by the time dishes were cleared and coffee mugs topped off, her internal stores had slowly begun reenergizing. And as they did, she gradually became more aware of her surroundings.

Twilight was seated opposite her, and she appeared to be relaxed; calm and tranquil, replete and sated. But Trixie sensed, more than saw, a tenseness about her. And the most obvious reason for that would be . . .

“Stop that!”

Trixie squeaked at the unexpected talon poke to her flank. Head jerking to the side she spotted Spike —the owner of said talon— giving her the gimlet eye before hopping up onto a chair of his own, positioned between the two of them.

Feeling the weight of two pair of eyes upon her, Trixie started tensing.

“Nu-uh,” Spike said, shaking his head and holding up a talon before wagging it in her direction.

For the first time, Twilight sensed something other than bleak despair, utter hopelessness, and self-loathing, bubbling up inside her friend: sulkiness. It wasn’t the most ideal emotion, true, but it beat the others by a long chalk.

“Doesn’t Trixie get a say in anything?” she petulantly complained.

“Normally, yes, you do,” Twilight assured. “But these aren’t normal circumstances.” She took a deep breath, feeling as if poised on the brink of a bottomless chasm . . . teetering on the lip . . . back when she was a unicorn, and didn’t have wings. I don’t know what I’m doing! I’m not a trained counselor! I’m not a licensed psychologist! I could make things worse, actually damage her, by saying the wrong thing! And I’ve promised her I’d never pry; that I’d never pressure her into talking!

That wasn’t even taking into account ‘But you will not pry, pester, or meddle with her. That is not a request, Twilight Sparkle; that is a Royal Command.’

To Tartarus with your “Royal Command”!

“Trixie?” Twilight’s voice was soft, yet for all that softness Trixie’s nerves suddenly vibrated with tension. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” and now her insides felt as if they were knotting up. “I mean that,” and, even through her growing tension, Trixie felt a counterbalancing sense of amazement, perceiving the absolute truth in her avowal. “But it’s obvious to us,” and Twilight indicated herself, and her dragon assistant and best friend, “that something is deeply troubling you. We don’t know what that is, and we don’t even know if we can help even if we did know,” she admitted. “But something I have learned . . . even if I was a slow learner about it” —she sheepishly, lopsidedly grinned for a moment— “is that, sometimes —quite often, actually— just talking to a friend about my fears, or worries, or troubles, helps me understand them better. Helps me deal with them better. Sometimes even helps me solve and dismiss them.”

Trixie had recovered just enough energy to be cognizant of her surroundings, but nowhere near enough to reestablish, let alone fully rebuild, her defenses. Even though everything inside her screamed “Danger!”, she simply didn’t have the resources to fight.

Their hearts broke as Trixie numbly spoke at last, her voice slow and defeated. “Trixie just wanted to be liked. That’s all. Trixie just . . . just wanted to make other ponies smile. To laugh. To find wonder and delight.” Tears filled huge purple orbs, beading up before spilling free, streaming down her cheeks. “B-b-but T-trixie . . . Trixie always failed. Trixie has always been a disappointment. At home. At school. As a performer.”

Her voice just wasn’t numb; it was like listening to somepony dead who was just waiting for burial.

Huge, swimming purple orbs gazed sightlessly into the distance. “Always hope; always disappointment. Until Trixie was so narcissistic, so desperate for success, for self-validation, that she willingly —eagerly— embraced an object Trixie knew was cursed . . . just to prove her worth, her value, her skills.

“After that,” her voice grew even colder, more lifeless, “Trixie finally understood. Everypony had always been right —and Trixie too vain, too arrogant and egotistical, to see the truth. Trixie was never meant to be a performer. Not an illusionist; not a prestidigitator; not an entertainer.

“So Trixie foreswore any and all performing.” It was difficult, but somehow both Spike and Twilight choked back gasps. “That was . . . hard. So hard,” she whispered, and tears filled dragon and alicorn at the terrible, heartrending loss in the unicorn’s quivering voice. “It has never really left Trixie,” she choked back a sob, then her voice turned hateful. “Trixie’s cutie mark; it never stops. It never stops whispering, no matter how hard Trixie tries and tries and tries. Trixie hates her cutie mark!” she bitterly cried out.

That exclamation seemed to drain her, for, once again, her voice turned soft and lifeless. “Trixie should never have agreed to perform again,” her shoulders jerked in silent sobs. “Trixie was so terribly afraid of releasing her demons again.” Her voice lowered so low it was barely audible. “But how could Trixie refuse? Princess Luna . . . she was so sad . . . so terribly, terribly sad . . . she had lost so much, and was now lost herself . . . floundering in a future so foreign to her. Besides . . . Trixie owed Princess Luna.”

As silence continued for long, long seconds, Twilight finally, her throat almost too thick to speak, prompted, “’Owed Princess Luna’? Owed her for what?”

“Trixie’s last name was not always ‘Lulamoon’,” in a broken voice she explained. “Trixie’s last name was taken from her years ago. So when Trixie needed a new name, she searched and searched before creating one. She just changed one letter; one small letter.”

Silence passed again, but before Twilight felt ready to prompt again, Trixie dully continued. “Trixie just changed an ‘L’ for an ‘N’ . . . Lulamoon, instead of Lunamoon.”

The scratching of the quill as it traced its path along the scroll seemed loud in the silence of the dim room. The parchment wasn’t very big; then again, the cypher message (when translated) was very short:

The parchment was tightly rolled, then placed into the tiny tube attached to a messenger pigeon. Moments later, in a flurry of wingbeats, the bird-carried message disappeared into the night.

Author's Notes:

Portions pre-read by: Dusk Melody Thanks again!