“Afternoon Trixie! How’re things?” “Hey Trixie! Lookin’ good today!” “Yo Trix! Have a pear!”

Ears flicking back and forth as she slowly ambled along, Trixie Lulamoon was feeling a bit disconcerted by all the attention she seemed to be attracting. Granted, for the last four days she’d been staying at Friendship Rainbow Kingdom Castle instead of her wagon, and, additionally, hadn’t been out-and-about, either, during that time. Even so, an absence like that wasn’t unprecedented; there had been several times in the past few months where Trixie, for one reason or another, hadn’t left her clearing, but she certainly hadn’t been received in this fashion when she finally had shown up again.

One thing she was absolutely positive about: this wasn’t sycophancy; nopony was trying to suck up her her . . . although why on Equestria anypony would want to do that to her was beyond comprehension. Nor was it mockery; nopony was lampooning her. Instead —and to her complete and utter astonishment— they seemed totally sincere!

“Awesome show, dude!” “Never saw anything like that!” “Can I have your autograph?”

Now those? Those . . . hurt. Like dull, rusty daggers thrust into her belly. It took every last iota of equanimity to keep from bursting into tears and galloping off. How long . . . how very, very long! had Trixie yearned for —had desperately craved!— recognition. Adulation. Praise . . .

. . . Validation. Approval. Acceptance.

It was like being an aspiring author, one who had worked decades of her life on her magnum opus. And then, after finally submitting it for publication, was slowly crushed when —not only was it constantly rejected— it was mocked, scorned, and belittled. And then, after finally having conceded defeat, after having tossed her life’s work —the physical embodiment of her failure and foolishness— into a blazing furnace . . . only after then . . . had she started getting multiple offers to be her publisher.

It didn’t help, not one single little bit, that it had been right here, right here in Ponyville, where her final, spiraling descent into ultimate failure, had begun.

Ponyville had been the furnace for Trixie’s magnum opus.

Her smile feeling brittle, she decided on altering her direction, gradually arcing left and taking a more southwest direction, skirting the shops and stores that lay more centralized in the track she had initially been headed. The original purpose for her stroll was still valid, after all: she’d been researching since breakfast, and was not only growing increasingly frustrated, but also feeling cooped up.

Twilight had left right after breakfast; some minor business in Canterlot, she’d claimed. She was still dancing on tiphooves, as if afraid of her own shadow. Oddly enough, instead of Trixie withdrawing, afraid that it was something she had done, this time she was curiously relaxed, finding her alicorn friend’s antics almost endearing. Her lips softly curved as a thought struck: in a way, it was something Trixie had done, after all! That smile grew a bit wider, her eyes turned a bit dreamy, as she recalled, once again, why that was so.

I wanted to have you fully in my power, and helplessly under my control again.

Trixie had been astonished that the bath water wasn’t boiling around her, for she certainly felt quite heated as Twilight, her eyes glowing with a fire of their own, bluntly admitted what had driven her that afternoon. That, on its own, would have been breathtaking. But Trixie was well aware —both from indirect experience and, more recently, direct interaction— of the difficulties Twilight had when speaking of matters of the heart. So she’d known —not guessed, but known— that that entire “confession” must have been enormously challenging for her to actually verbalize . . . but she had.

She hadn’t stuttered or stammered. She hadn’t hedged about with scores of prefatory remarks. She hadn’t ducked her head, or looked everywhere else but at Trixie.

No. No, Twilight had just kept her eyes on Trixie, and just . . . talked. Yes, there had been one or two spots where she’d trailed off for a moment, but that hadn’t been somepony trying to decide the best —or safest— way of stating something; it had simply been somepony marshalling their thoughts in the proper order, to more accurately convey what was in their heart into spoken words.

I wanted to have you fully in my power, and helplessly under my control again.

And, along with that, what hadn’t been articulated: And I want that again.

Unlike Twilight, Trixie hadn’t exhaustively researched certain, specific interpersonal dynamics. However —and, again unlike Twilight— Trixie had something that she didn’t have: years of experience.

Oh, not practical experience, no. But while the studious Twilight had thought she’d understood the erotic, the sensual if not outright sexual, aspects of their mutually shared interest in self-bondage . . . Trixie did have a much better understanding. While both alicorn and unicorn could —and did— find pleasure, relief and relaxation in simply being bound, Trixie sometimes enjoyed “kicking it up a notch” by crossing over into the more sensual and erotic realms; hence her special sawpony.

It had been obvious to the quietly listening —and gently wriggling— unicorn that Twilight had been feeling . . . overwhelmed? Out of control? Wicked?

Overriding all of that had been the very clear worry —no, not worry; fear— that she had allowed her abruptly-burgeoning desires to gallop off with her, and, in doing so, had taken advantage of Trixie.

Before Twilight could backslide into Sparkle-spazzing, second-guessing herself, and things, into an infinite loop, Trixie had simply touched Twilight’s lips with her hoof. “Trixie makes no promises about the future,” she’d begun, “for these are still early days. However, Trixie would be perfectly fine with the understanding that,” and at that point her cheeks, throat, muzzle, and ears had turned a vibrant crimson, “once Trixie has entered through that door,” as she’d gestured to the concealed entrance, “and into this room . . .,” she’d taken a deep breath, “for as long as she remains in this room . . . she is the same pony that you had bought.”

Smothering impatience —somewhat unsuccessfully— Twilight paced in slow circles in the anteroom leading to the Royal Vault for Dangerous Magicks. Oddly enough, as Princess Celestia’s personal student, Twilight had never needed permission to access the vault. But, now that she was no longer Celestia’s student and protégée, but was a Princess herself? Snorting in frustration, at both the delay and the bureaucratic idiocy, Twilight mentally reviewed the avenues of research she’d planned on pursuing.

As per Princess Celestia’s decree, that Twilight must understand, and accept, that any research on the Alicorn Amulet would have to be at second hoof —which, in all seriousness, Twilight couldn’t fault the reasoning behind that . . . and, besides, she had no desire to experiment with, or on, it. Twilight could indirectly research the amulet; she would not be permitted to experiment with the amulet itself.

She was fine with that. What she hadn’t been fine with was discovering that she now needed permission before she could enter!

Finally, after a seeming eternity, a Royal Guardpony entered, bearing a pass for the Princess of Friendship. Part of Twilight was hurt that her former teacher didn’t personally show up with that, but another part of her was more than accepting of the evidence of the estrangement that now existed between them.

Entering the Royal Vault for Dangerous Magicks, the determined alicorn headed straight to where the Alicorn Amulet was ensconced, uncharacteristically refusing to be distracted from her grim purpose by all the other tantalizing items protectively housed here.

Standing in front of the amulet —securely stored behind a magically-reinforced bell jar of transparent quartz— she was, once again, taken aback by the seeming innocence of the amulet when first looked at. Meant to be worn around the neck, the amulet bore the effigy of a red-and-gray winged unicorn (which, by definition, was an alicorn) rising up from behind a lighter gray escutcheon, on whose face was a massive, blood-red gem. But, within seconds of examining it, Twilight felt herself growing . . . uneasy. Unsettled. And it wasn’t because she knew —not guessed, or conjectured, but knew— its sinister purpose. It was the eyes, she abruptly realized. Well, eye. There was a brooding hostility behind that half-lidded, crimson orb.

Although intended to be worn around the neck, it wasn’t a necklace, per se. There was no chain, or lace, or thong, to encircle a neck and be securely attached behind. Instead, curving like a pair of horns, was a wound helix fashioned from a flat strip of some unknown, dull-gray metal, forming a semi-flexible “spring”, the two ends slipping around the throat of the wearer. The design, Twilight was stunned to discern, was an intentional mockery. It looked like it would be so easy to pull off the wearer, as it was nowhere near as securely held in place as a proper necklace would do. But security wasn’t really an issue, after all, as the magic of the Amulet made removal by anypony other than the wearer flat-out impossible.

Thus the mockery behind the design.

Slowly, one step at a time, Twilight circled the Alicorn Amulet, All she was doing was visually examining it, and with normal sight, not Mage sight. Unless it became absolutely necessary, the unconditional last resort, Twilight was not, in any way, shape or form, going to allow any of her personal energies to contact that cursed item.

Time slowly passed, although the utterly focused alicorn was oblivious to such a mundane matter as the stately progression of seconds and minutes. It might seem silly to spend several hours just looking at an object, especially one locked behind a quartz crystal jar. But Twilight Sparkle, for all of her modesty and self-effacement, was the premier Mage of her generation; and, quite possibly, in Equestria history —barring, of course, the Diarchs themselves. And while she hadn’t had much personal, hoof-on experience with cursed items, that didn’t mean she wasn’t versed in their construction, booby-traps, and energization. Something as simple as a seeming scratch, blemish, or other imperfection, could actually be the key behind the Construct.

I think I’ve gone as far as I can with just a visual examination, she gustily sighed. She’d always intended, of course, to immerse herself in the Library (Canterlot’s deserved capitalization, too) doing intense, objective research, but it was worth the time invested on the off-chance that the Amulet concealed some sort of clue, especially if that gave her a substantial starting point.

Well, no research, no experiment, is ever wasted, she reminded herself. Besides, maybe something I read will trig—— Hold on a moment!

Nose almost pressed against the crystal of the jar, Twilight intently peered inside. There had been something, something so very peripheral . . . There!

Purple eyes slowly widened as she intensely focused on the horn of the red-and-gray alicorn; the easily-recognizable, gently-spiraled horn that all unicorns —and alicorns— possessed. Except . . .

Except the circumvoluted edges of that weren’t simple, graven lines in the metal creating the appearance of a horn spiral. . . or, more accurately, weren’t just engravings.

Twilight’s eyes rounded, even as the pit of her belly heaved, as her blood turned to ice. That simple-seeming engraved line was actually formed by miniscule, almost-imperceptible glyphs, so tightly interlocked with each other as to form a seemingly single line.

Tiny little glyphs Twilight sickening remembered seeing before.

Morganti glyphs.

Necromancers.

“Buck Buck Buck-awww! Look, it’s a big chicken. Oh, wait . . . even chickens can fly, so that can’t be you.”

Trixie’s head snapped up, shocked out of her reverie by the mean, hateful words. She’d been distantly aware of a growing stridency of shrill voices, but they hadn’t really registered as anything other than just bickering youngsters . . . until that voice.

Diamond Tiara.

“Shut up! Just shut up, you!”

“Scootaloo, don’t let her git in yer britches laik thet.”

“Yeah Scootaloo, she ain’t worth getting all riled up.”

“Oh look . . . it’s the Fruity Lark Degraders! With their pet turkey!”

“That’s it! I’ve had it!”

“Scoots, don’t!”

Stepping around the hedgerow, Trixie found herself several yards away from the squabbling fillies. On one side was, yes indeed, Diamond Tiara, along with her best (and, as some ponies had said, only) friend Silver Spoon. On the other side were three other fillies: Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo. At the moment Scootaloo was struggling to break free from her fellow Crusaders, murder in her tear-streaked eyes as she lunged towards her antagonist.

There was a vicious glint of satisfaction in Diamond Tiara’s light blue eyes, as she mockingly brayed at the small orange pegasus. Standing next to her, and looking rather uncomfortable, was Silver Spoon. Diamond Tiara was about to launch a fresh round of taunts to the Crusaders, but at that moment spotted Trixie out of the corner of her eye. “What do you want?” she sneered. “What?” she asked, suddenly confused as the other four fillies just froze. “It’s just the Late and Pitiful Blowhard.”

Trixie just stood there, an imposing statue, purple eyes just unblinkingly observing . . . as if weighing the obnoxious filly and finding her wanting. Diamond Tiara suddenly flushed under the intensity of that gaze, then flushed darker in embarrassment at reacting to that loser pony looking at her. Fury bubbled up inside her; she opened her mouth to issue scathing imprecations at Trixie. How dare that . . . that vagabond tramp look at her like that! Didn’t she know who Diamond Dazzle Tiara was? But before she could say a word . . .

Her head whipped to the side, staring at Silver Spoon who had just whispered something to her, and then her eyes darted sideways at Trixie for a moment before looking back at her friend. She murmured something too low to head, and then her face went white with shock as Silver Spoon, a look of tragic regret on her face, just shook her head . . . and stepped back several paces from Diamond Tiara. Rage flared in her eyes as she savagely stamped the ground with a forehoof . . . and then she went white a second time as Silver Spoon, after exchanging a look with the still silent-and-motionless Trixie, turned her back on her friend and started solemnly walking away.

“Silver Spoon!” Diamond Tiara’s voice was an odd mix of anger and trepidation. Shooting Trixie a poisonous yet fearful look, she turned and trotted after her friend. “Silver Spoon!” she called out again.

“Get. Off. Me!”

Turning her head, Trixie saw Scootaloo violently thrash, jerking herself free from her friends’ grasp.

“Scootaloo, Aih’m——“

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Scootaloo shrilly screamed, and then, before anypony could say or do anything. “And just leave me alone!” she yelled, her voice breaking as sobs finally broke free, tears streaming down her face as she wheeled about and then galloped, bawling as she raced off.

Sweetie Belle, a rather cute and delicate, white unicorn, and Apple Bloom, a sturdy little, yellow Earth pony, both sadly sighed, visibly deflating in their sorrow, Apple Bloom’s huge bow seeming to wilt as well. “Thank you, Miss Trixie,” Apple Bloom finally said.

“Yes,” Sweetie Belle piped up. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything Trixie can do?” she asked.

“Naw, but thanks fer askin’,” replied Apple Bloom.

Sweetie Belle’s eyes looked like shimmering emerald pools, as tears threatened to spill free. “I don’t think there’s anything anypony can do to help,” she said, her voice trembly with suppressed emotion. “She just wants to fly,” she said, so very softly, as she gazed off into the distance where her hurting friend had run.

Twilight sat at a carrel in the Restricted section of the Canterlot Library. Either the word had been passed, or her permission had never been rescinded, for nopony intercepted her as she purposefully strode through the corridors and through the door there. Her saddlebag glowed light pink; the flap opened, and then a small, pink-limned, scroll floated up and out before settling on the desk top.

Nausea still churned inside as she unrolled the scroll alongside a very old and dusty tome. The chirography left much to be desired; then again, it had been quite some time since Twilight had mouthwritten instead of using her magic. But she wasn’t about to use magic anywhere near that cursed thing, and so, one laborious glyph at a time, Twilight had copied the engraved symbols, followed by, just as laboriously, comparing her copy with that of the Amulet.

It took less than a minute to verify her suspicions: those glyphs were those used by the Morganti, and by nopony else.

By any definition of the word, the Morganti were a malignant aberration. They had been a small, close-knit cabal of Earth ponies that had predated the Founding.

As had been typical of the times back then, there had been quite a bit of factional strife between the three pony tribes. Actually, “factional strife” was putting it mildly: the three tribes were divided by hatred, and cared only for the welfare of their own kind.

The Morganti took that to extremes.

Somehow —nopony knew how, exactly . . . or, if they did, weren’t telling a soul— the Morganti, through the power of their Earth pony heritage, discovered within themselves an arcane connection to nature that went a bit further beyond the pale than your typical Earth pony.

Much further.

Much much further.

Life springs from the ground . . . and returns there, as well.

The Morganti discovered the ability to manipulate the latter.

They were innate necromancers.

And they were finished being the scorn of the unicorns and pegasi that looked down their long muzzles at the common, good-for-nothing-but-scut-labor Earth ponies.

Standing in front of the desk in the carrel Twilight had graciously assigned for her personal use, Trixie’s eyes sightlessly wandered over the stacked reference books there. One and all, they dealt with, and delved into, cutie marks: facts, speculations, philosophy, history . . .

She just wants to fly

Closing her eyes, Trixie could feel the throbbing call of her cutie mark. That had never stopped, not even when she’d tried her hardest to keep the vow she’d made: to eschew performing, absolutely and completely. From the moment her cutie mark had appeared, an already-miserable life had achieved an even worse nadir. Oh, not at first. Oh no! That would have been too easy! Instead . . . her cutie mark had held out hope . . . making the falls that followed ever the worse due to the heights that guileful prospect had treacherously transported her.

She just wants to fly

Trixie had had such bright hopes, such wonderful dreams. What had hurt the worst is that she had achieved those dreams. For a moment in her life, like a flash in the pan, she had been a successful stage magician, using a combination of prestidigitation, sleight-of-hoof, and illusions, to delight, astound and entertain. For just that brief moment of time, she’d lived the excitement, the wonder and joy, that she’d felt so many years ago with Madam Mythic.

She just wants to fly

Yes. Yes, that bright hope, that utter, intense longing, had flared up like a dying star before collapsing into ash. But . . .

Trixie had, even if for such a very brief time, lived her dream.

Scootaloo . . . hadn’t. And wouldn’t ever.

She just wants to fly

Soft lavender coruscated about the books and tomes on her desk. Levitating them, Trixie took them back out into the Library before carefully reshelving them . . . or trying to, anyway.

“Here. Let me.”

“Thank you Spike, but Trixie can do this. She doesn’t wish to be a burden.”

“Heh,” Spike chuckled. “For one, it’s not a burden. For another —and meaning no offense at all— this way I make sure it gets filed correctly. You have no idea how stroppy Twilight can get when she —which usually means me— can’t find a book. So consider this a selfish, self-survival tactic.”

Spike’s grin was infectious, so much so that Trixie found herself grinning back. Her expression blanked a bit when Spike asked her if she was done her research, as she hoped the little dragon wasn’t paying close attention to what books she had been looking through, for she didn’t wish Twilight —or anypony else, for that matter— to wonder why it was that Trixie had this sudden interest in cutie marks.

“Can I help you find anything?” he asked, grunting as he heaved a huge tome up unto its place in the shelves.

She just wants to fly

“Are there any reference books, or materials, that focus on pegasi, and pegasi magic? Particularly pegasus flight.”

Yes, Trixie had a brief moment to live her dream. Scootaloo never would live hers.

Without help, anyway.

Trixie had lived with her cutie mark this long. She could tolerate, and endure it, for a while longer.

Tears streaked her cheeks as Twilight numbly stared at the translation she’d so laboriously deciphered. Suddenly it became too much for her. Jerking to her hooves, she abruptly staggered towards the door, seeking . . . she wasn’t at all sure what she was seeking, and within seconds, it didn’t matter. Her tongue felt thick; her mouth filled with saliva. Dropping her head she heaved; heaved again, and then spewed all over the floor, legs spread and violently trembling. Taking a couple of side steps she just slumped, collapsing into a huddled ball on the chill stone floor, silently sobbing as the words she’d so arduously translated kept uncaringly scrolling through her mind.