Chapter Four

The Fall

It was two days later, and winter’s grip was tightening.

A blizzard whipped up by nature, not of pegasine creation, had swirled in over the Everfree from the west. Throughout the night, the wind had howled and hissed between the bare branches and, twice, the splintering scream of an uprooted tree had rent the air. Even though the skeletal canopy kept away little of the snow, the air had still been fogged with fat, stinging, flakes that made it impossible to see more than five feet in the clouded moonlight.

Once, a jarring thud of impact had sounded outside her shelter, but it was impossible, over the wailing wind, to tell what it could have been.

Trixie, recognizing how desperate the situation had become, had been forced to rise in the pitch-dark, gritting her teeth and bowing her head as she stepped outside into the flensing gale. It had taken nearly all of her strength, but she had eventually managed to conjure a weak magical shield around her shelter, weaving the field into place time after agonizing time until the spell finally held itself together.

Magic beyond simple conjuration and illusion did not come easily to the unicorn, but the shimmering blue-grey ripples in the air served well enough to prevent her hideaway from being blown away, or buried. The wind had still howled and bit at her through the barrier, but its teeth were blunted.

It had seemed for all the world the morning would never come, but come, at last, it did. Trixie lay, shivering beneath her roof of woven willow, blessing the thick blanket that lay protectively across her prone form. The storm had struck without warning, almost at the stroke of midnight, with a shocking, sudden, ferocity. The unicorn knew all too well that the warmth afforded by so simple a gift as the thick square of cloth had, most likely, saved her life.

Now, the sun had risen on another world. The wind had died out overnight, but the air was still thick with fluttering snowflakes. Trixie’s spell had saved her shelter from another collapse but, as she rolled over, unwilling to truly awaken, her hooves were utterly numb with cold.

“Hello,” she mumbled, blearily. She was answered by a soft coo, and the unicorn half-smiled. During the night, a bedraggled and disoriented wood pigeon had stumbled into her shelter, its feathers askew from the gale. It had flopped down on Trixie’s blanket, obviously in a state of exhaustion. Before, it barely seemed to notice that another creature was even present, although even if it had, Trixie suspected that it would have taken the risk of company rather than braving the storm. Now, apparently taking advantage of the relative warmth, it was nestled into the pale grey fabric of the blanket, looking around with an air of polite puzzlement.

Trixie rolled back over, looking up at the ceiling. “What am I going to do?” She voiced the question to the air, but somehow it came to be directed at the bird beside her. She raised her head, meeting its eyes. It did not seem particularly attentive, but any sounding-board at this moment was one she would appreciate.

She had already decided that she was not going to return to the unknown pegasus’s house. The mare was kind, she was thoughtful and willing to help, but she was also deeply, utterly, enchanting. The more Trixie saw her, the more she learned about her, the more the primrose pony attracted her. She did not want to bare herself to that kind of hurt again.

A second soft coo sounded beside her. The mare looked up, and saw that the pigeon was looking quizzically at her, or so she imagined. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t fall for somepony so… unattainable.” Another low clucking sound; Trixie took this as an invitation to continue.

“I’m a leper,” she murmured. “I nearly destroyed her town, I’ve stalked her, stolen from her… lusted after her.” Her cheeks coloured at the last word. What little sleep she had found over the last two nights had been haunted by dreams of kind words, soft tongues, and lingering stolen caresses. She continued speaking hurriedly, her voice rising.

“I could walk up to her door right now, and she’d give me food, she’d take me in and look after me, and I’d fall in love with her.” She snorted, and the pigeon blinked, looking away.

“I’ve already done her so much wrong. I can’t take anything more from her; I won’t!” She shouted the last word, thumping a hoof down into the blanket. In a panic at the sudden noise, the pigeon scrambled away with a loud squawk and took flight, out into the snowstorm, with a sharp clatter of wings. Trixie watched it vanish into the blurry whiteness outside, and buried her head in her forelegs with a long sigh, her sudden burst of anger evaporating.

She had been in the forest for a year, and yet she had never before found herself talking to the creatures. Maybe the fact that she wanted someone to talk to meant that she was healing. Maybe it meant she wanted to be a part of the world again; to end her quarantine. Maybe, she tentatively considered, she might even be ready.

Deep in thought, she began to rise for the morning, sitting up and heading, with a yawn, for the snowy light of day.

Her shelter may have survived but, as she crawled outside, her stiff joints cracking in the cold, she saw at once that her camp had not been so fortunate. She froze, and her blood chilled as she set eyes on the scene.

The snow was knee-deep, and there was no sign of her food-pit, or her fireplace, beneath the whiteness. However, that was not what had rendered her statuesque with shock. A splintered tree-trunk, thick as a hydra’s neck, lay fallen across the clearing, cutting a sharp trough into the frozen ground. It must have fallen with a crash to wake the dead but, in the uproar of the previous night’s gale, it had been merely another background noise.

A scrap of twisted metal poked out from beneath the branches and, as Trixie picked her way closer, heart hammering, she saw that her unfortunate cooking pot had been crumpled like a tin can by the impact.

Trixie knew perfectly well that if the tree had fallen just two metres to the left, her protective bubble would have shattered like sugar glass, and she would have been utterly erased. Her mind felt strangely blank; this was not the first time that her stay in the Everfree had brought her close to death, but somehow this was the most shocking. Wolves, bears, poison, disease and starvation all seemed like challenges to be avoided, but to be snuffed out on a whim of chance… this would, by far, have been the most cynical of ends.

She blinked, snapping herself out of the initial shock, and attempted to take stock of the situation. Her food was lost, but she had all but run out anyway. The dried fruit and chocolate had vanished far faster than she had intended, and all that had remained were a few remains of her original, blander haul. In the grand scheme of things, it was no great loss.

Pacing up and down, hauling her legs out of the blanket of snow with each step, she began to plan. Perhaps she was delusional. Indeed, that seemed more than likely by now, but she was not yet convinced that all was lost. The wind was gone, but the snow was falling as thickly as ever.

She was freezing and hungry, she had nearly been killed in her fitful half-sleep, and she was refusing to return to the one pony who freely offered her shelter, warmth, and food. Any chance of surviving in the forest for much longer was nothing more than a fantasy and yet, somehow, the more apparent that fact became, the stronger Trixie clung to her imagined hope.

There’s a farm, she thought to herself. Her breath clouded up in a crystalline mist as she remembered the fields of apple trees that she had seen, as she looked out contemptuously from between the shafts of the caravan, on the final night of her pretence. A farm on the outskirts of Ponyville; nopony would see me in this weather. There’s bound to be winter storage, or some trees that haven’t been harvested yet.

Her thoughts churned feverishly. I can do this. I don’t need to go back to her; I don’t need to do her any more damage. I can see this winter out, and get to Trottingham…

Her eyes filled with hot tears as the plan repeated over and over in her head. Deep down, she knew why. Another voice spoke up, an undercurrent, a thought that she had written down in a thousand different ways, that had always been there, ticking away in the back of her mind.

This forest will be the death of me.

Time was running out.

Shaking her head to force her thoughts away from such grim waters she spun on the spot, kneeled inside her shelter, and pulled out her blanket. With a hiss of magic, she draped the cloth over her back, knotting it around her neck like a cape. She immediately gave a sigh of relief as the chill bite of the whirling flakes lessened a little. Wrapped up in the pale-grey fabric, she was not only warmer, but she felt she would be all but invisible in the snow-filled morning.

The farm… she thought, feverishly. I’ll go to the farm. Hardly neutral territory, but there’ll be food there, and there might even be a disused shed or barn. Somewhere to hide, somewhere to sleep. Somewhere out of the cold.

She knew that finding her camp again would be difficult with the forest so disfigured by the winds and whiteness but, in all honesty, it did not matter. She had little property, and no reason to call this place anything close to a home.

After confirming that her ever-reliable knife was still strapped securely to her leg, she seized her journal from the shelter, and stowed it in the folds of the blanket with a contemptuous glance at the little book. Then, struggling a little as she ploughed her way through the deep snow, she set off into the trees without a backwards look.

“I’ll be surprised if they’re gone. They’re persistent critters, I’ll give ‘em that.”

The farmhouse living room was filled with a pleasant crackling, and the holly-wreathed fireplace flickered with a pleasant, inviting warmth. Granny Smith sat in her rocking-chair, humming idly to herself as she gazed a little blearily into the flames, and Applebloom lay on the rug, happily sketching in her notebook with a set of bright wax crayons.

It was with heavy hearts, therefore, that Fluttershy and Applejack left the none-too-wintery atmosphere, and headed for the front door to inspect the effects of Zecora’s concoction. The snow had all but whited out the view from the windows, and for those warmly seated inside, it lent a pleasant, seasonal camaraderie to the air. The idea of going out into the teeth of the blizzard, however, was somewhat less appealing.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Fluttershy replied, toying thoughtfully with the end of her thick scarf, then turning to look at her friend as they reached the door. “It worked wonders on my allotments.” She sighed, pausing at the farmhouse’s threshold, looking almost guilty. “I feel bad about driving them away, to be honest,” she said in a small voice. “It’s a hard winter this year, and if they can’t find food…”

Applejack snorted quietly, but smiled reassuringly at the pegasus. “I reckon there’s enough windfall around ta feed an army of bugs,” she replied, waving a hoof. “The winds will’a made pretty darn sure of that, an’ they’re welcome to it. just want ‘em to leave mah trees alone.”

Fluttershy nodded, breaking the farm-pony’s gaze. “Alright, then. I… I just don’t like the idea of any creatures having to live out in this.” Her eyes clouded over with some silent, internal worry, and Applejack looked across at her in concern. “I can’t… I can’t see anypony surviving long.”

The pegasus jumped a little as Applejack touched her gently on the shoulder, her eyes searching the timid pony’s gaze. “Something troublin’ you, sugarcube?”

Silently cursing the earth pony’s insight, Fluttershy shook her head, her cheeks flushing treacherously. “No… No, it’s fine. I always get a bit jittery in the winter.” She smiled, weakly. “I get so many animal visitors, it’s hard not to worry about them all. I’m… I know I’m silly.”

Applejack chuckled, although she did not appear quite convinced by Fluttershy’s stab at nonchalance. “I don’t see how that’s silly, Fluttershy,” she said, reaching out a hoof for the door handle. “You’re kind, and y’all should be the first to know that’s not the same thing as silly. We’re all mighty lucky ta know a pony like you.”

Fluttershy blushed still deeper, as she was eternally prone to do when complimented. She smiled, and would probably have replied, but at that moment Applejack pulled open the front door, and a blast of chill air and snowflakes struck them both into silence. Behind them, Granny Smith looked up irritably at the sudden cold.

“Whoa, Nelly!” exclaimed Applejack, clamping her hat more firmly down on her head, and grinning. It was obvious that she relished this kind of weather, for the challenge and variation it offered. “Well then, let’s git this over with.”

Fluttershy nodded, fluffing up the feathers in her wings, and the two mares trotted out into the snowstorm, their heads bowed.

Not ten paces after the front door had clicked shut behind them, the farmhouse was all but out of sight. Fluttershy did not mind helping her friends find humane resolutions to animal difficulties, but she privately wished that the animal would choose more opportune times to be difficult.

Applejack’s orchards, whilst largely bare of apples at this time of year, had fallen victim to the ravages of some unknown insect. According to the farm-pony’s rather panicked explanation, when she had come knocking on Fluttershy’s door several days ago, these creatures had taken to gnawing their way into the trunks of apple trees, feeding off the sap and making their homes within. Apparently they had already been forced to cut down four hopelessly damaged trees, much to Applejack’s distress, and more would likely follow if nothing was done.

Fluttershy sighed, quietly, the noise lost in the wind’s low whistle. She did not resent offering Applejack a helping hoof; quite the contrary, in fact. However, she could not get the image of that bedraggled, shivering sapphire-blue mare out of her mind. Every second she spent at the farm, every second she stood by and watched the blizzard’s grip tightening, felt like a condemnation.

But what was she to do? She could hardly go out searching the Everfree. Indeed, she knew, deep down, that Trixie’s life was her own, and if the unicorn wanted to throw it away in trying to retain her untenable life in the wild, then that was her decision.

But somehow, she could not accept it. Fluttershy was not a mare who could rest easy with the knowledge that others were suffering, even if they were not her responsibility. Even though there was nothing that anypony could reasonably do to keep Trixie from harm, an insidious sense of helplessness gnawed in the pit of the canary mare’s stomach. She shook her head, minutely, forcing herself to concentrate upon the task at hand, and to not lose sight of Applejack’s silhouette, plodding along at her side in the snowstorm. This sort of irrationality, she knew, was the price of kindness.

By the time they arrived at the affected field, the blizzard had thinned out a little. The mares no longer needed to walk with their eyes screwed half-shut, and although the snow still swirled around them, visibility had improved. The trees in this field were leafless and whitened, bearing all the hallmarks of winter’s touch.

To Fluttershy’s surprise, a reasonable amount of brown, slightly leathery-looking apples still clung to boughs here and there. As Applejack explained, these trees had been imported from the northern territories, and grew hardy Griffongard Russets until late into the winter months.

The apples were not the only thing that made these trees unusual though. The trunks of each one glimmered with a vague, mottled greenish light, as if hundreds of glow-worms had congregated in clumps on the bark. Applejack let out a low whistle. Fluttershy smiled, noting her friend’s raised eyebrows.

“See the glow?” the pegasus asked, recognizing the effects of the potion from her own allotment. “It’s working.”

Applejack nodded. “I put two spoonfuls on their roots, and three on the big ‘uns, just like you said.” She trotted up to one of the trees, examining it closely, and gave a small exclamation of delight.

Fluttershy hung back, looking around at the trees. In a way, it was almost eerie; rank upon rank of jagged, skeletal branches, all aglow with that unique, shifting luminescence. She cast her eyes behind her, looking back towards the farmhouse, and let out a small gasp.

Just for a second, she could have sworn that she had caught sight of something; a flash of unexpected movement near a row of disused tool-sheds that stood in a ramshackle clutter along the well-worn track. She had seen an equine figure, she was sure of it, standing pale-grey, barely distinguishable from the surrounding snow.

Search as she might, she could not catch sight of it again. She strained her eyes through the flurries of white, but no further movement caught her gaze. There was something about that particular tone of grey, some familiarity, that stirred her heart to rise and beat in her throat.

A hoof tapped her on the shoulder, and she squeaked, jolting violently as if electrocuted. She spun around, caught sight of Applejack, and immediately flushed hotly and looked away, feeling exceptionally foolish.

“Sorry!” The farm-pony pulled her hoof back, apologetically. “I didn’t mean ta scare ya’ll like that. I was just sayin’ that brew of Zecora’s worked a treat. No sign of the lil’ critters anywhere, and-” she broke off at the expression on Fluttershy’s face, concern etched in her gaze again. “…Sugarcube?”

“Y-yes, I’m… I thought I…” Fluttershy shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

Applejack seemed, once again, unconvinced. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m worried about you, hon,” she said, quietly. “You’re just not yerself; not yerself at all.”

Fluttershy broke her friend’s gaze, looking down at her hooves. “I’m sorry, Applejack,” she murmured, her voice breaking a little. “I’m just… distracted at the moment.” She looked around, back up the track, but saw no signs of movement. That flash of grey… she did not know anypony of that colour, but its familiarity was tantalizing, dancing just out of reach.

She felt a hoof on her shoulder, and this time she did not flinch. “Okay, Fluttershy,” Applejack said, walking up to stand at her side, and looking back up towards the farmhouse, her tone one of understanding. “I’m not gonna hold it against ya’ll if you don’t wanna say what’s up. It’s just…” the earth pony looked suddenly wistful, and she broke off, shrugging.

“Ya know. That whole mess with RD. You were always there, if’n I needed somepony to talk to.” She smiled almost shyly at the timid pegasus, her eyes a little brighter than usual. “It meant a lot ta me, Fluttershy, an’ if ya’ll ever need me to return the favour, if ya need to talk about anything… you do know I’m here, don’t ya?”

The canary mare let out a low sigh, but smiled nevertheless. Looking back on those months now, nopony had ever realistically expected such a turbulent relationship as Applejack’s and Rainbow Dash’s to remain written in stone for long. Their half-combative romance had always seemed to exist on borrowed time, but it had still come as a shock to all who knew them when they had finally fallen apart for good.

Thanks largely to Fluttershy’s mediation and willingness to act as a go-between, the two mares had remained tentative friends. Indeed, if anything, their once-playful rivalry had grown all the more intense in the months since they had split.

Somehow, this train of thought led Fluttershy back to Trixie, and that bubbling sting of worry burned again in the pit of her stomach. Impulsively, in lieu of an immediate verbal response, she leaned across and embraced Applejack, wrapping a foreleg around her shoulder and leaning against the side of her warm neck. At first, the orange mare froze in surprise, but quickly recovered and responded in kind, recognizing the appreciative gesture.

“Thanks, AJ,” she whispered. “I… I’d like to talk, but just… not today. Not now.” She pulled back to meet the farm pony’s gaze, one foreleg still held tentatively around her neck. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Applejack smiled again. “'Course I don’t, sugarcube.”

In truth, Fluttershy did not know why she had not told her friend the truth about her worries; of the situation with Trixie. Somehow, it seemed crass or somehow inappropriate to drag such a bitter piece of the past back into the spotlight. Twilight was one thing; she seemed inextricably linked with the Ursa Minor debacle, and had not suffered any personal humiliation at the showmare’s hooves. but beyond her it seemed almost wrong to discuss the matter. In any case, Applejack would doubtless not take kindly to Trixie’s return.

She could not honestly say why, but the whole affair felt deeply personal; an intricate dance, played out in steps of stealth and gradual acceptance. It felt like an intrigue; almost intimate. It could not be rushed, for fear that the showmare might take fright and vanish. Fluttershy simply hoped with all her heart that the winter did not claim her midnight visitor before she could be coaxed out into the light.

Then, as she pulled away from her friend and looked ahead, she saw it again. She froze. This time, the glimpse of grey was behind a bare tree, making its way rapidly away from them, moving stealthily across a field to the west of the track. The figure, half-hidden by the whirling snow, had simply chosen the wrong moment to break cover. This time too, Fluttershy recognized the pale grey cloth of her gift all too easily, and she caught a flash of sapphire-blue beneath a makeshift hood.

Somehow, perhaps an unwillingness to connect Trixie’s visits with her everyday life and friendships, she had not initially made the connection. How could she have been so stupid?

She’s here. Celestia knows why, but she’s here.

With a sudden spark of determination, she squared her shoulders. After every winter, there were always a few creatures, a few visitors, who no longer squeezed through the gap in her fence to see her. A few friendly faces, trapped by inexperience, halted by age or simply victims of fate, who never came back in from the cold.

She could not tell Applejack her intentions yet. She knew that the proud mare would treat this as a hunt; she would see the opportunity to settle an old score. She would come with her rope and her dog to chase down the intruder. That, Fluttershy knew, was not an option; she had to do this herself. She turned to the farm pony, a strange and rarely-seen glint of confidence shining in her eyes.

“There’s something I need to do,” she said, in a voice that was quiet but would brook no argument. “I’ve got to go; I’ll meet you back at the farmhouse.” She paused for a moment. “Thanks, AJ,” she whispered, gratefully nuzzling her friend’s cheek. “I’ll explain everything later, I promise.” Then, before the other mare could reply, she turned and strode purposefully away, off into the fields and the gently alighting snow.

She would not lose this one. It was time to bring the dance to an end.

Ten minutes earlier.

Pulling the blanket tighter around herself, Trixie trudged through the endless ranks of leafless trees, making her way from field to bare field, keeping low and sticking close to the hedgerows. It was unlikely that anypony would be out on a day like this, and even more so that she would be seen from a window, given her rudimentary camouflage and ample concealment offered by the weather.

Ahead, she could see a farm track, the crisp whiteness ground up to a muddy sludge by the passage of heavy hooves. At the side of the road stood a cluster of dilapidated wooden tool-sheds, and it was these that Trixie headed towards. Just along the track, she could make out an intriguing green glow, rising up from a field and eerily tinting the falling snow.

Apples… you can’t survive the winter on apples.

I’ll have no chance if I don’t try. It’s apples or nothing.

Well then, you’ll be dead in a snowdrift this time next week. Trixie, you need to go to her. I don’t know if it’s pride or fear or shame that’s stopping you, but she’s your only chance now.

I don’t want to lose myself like that again.

Some things are worth a broken heart, Trixie, but if you won’t accept that, there’s nothing I can do. If you’d rather die than fall for her, then go ahead.

Food first. I’ll think about these things later.

You’re always going to ‘think about things later’. There’s not going to be a later for you, before too long.

In truth, she had not counted on the farm being quite so large, or indeed so focused. Acre upon acre of fields spread out in every direction around the farmhouse, and the trees thus far had all seemed bare and skeletal.

What kind of farm only grows apples, anyway? she thought irritably. Still, there was always a chance of finding some kind of winter store. Arriving at the run-down sheds, she leaned out into the road, looking surreptitiously up and down the track. To her right stood the farmhouse, growing more visibly as the blizzard began to thin, and to her left was the source of that unearthly light.

Then, after a brief examination, Trixie’s eyes lit up. The strange glow was coming from a field of trees that stood some little distance along the road. More importantly, it seemed that the limbs of the trees were dotted with large, brown apples, despite their more-or-less leafless state.

I guess they need something to keep business going through the winter, she mused. She felt little or no thrill of success at this discovery; she was only aware of a strange detachment, as if she were a scarcely-interested observer of her own precarious life. Her existence was something maintained from day to day, and this was simply a means of prolonging that existence.

Then, just as she prepared to step out onto the track, she caught the hint of a mare’s voice, borne on the wind towards her. It was sharp and low-pitched with a pronounced country accent, and Trixie’s heart began to pump violently in fearful recognition. Suddenly, she was no longer a mere observer.

She pulled her head back before she could catch a glimpse of the pony, but she recalled that voice all too well; she had last heard it immediately before magically hog-tying its owner in front of a large crowd. It was a cruel twist of fate, to encounter a mare who had even more of a reason to hate her than the rest of the ponies in this town.

Scrambling out of view, she backed quickly behind one of the rotting tool-sheds, and crouched down in the snow, praying that her protruding head had not been spotted. She certainly had no wish to reveal herself, particularly not in such a vulnerable state. She knew that her discovery would likely lead to ridicule at best and, at worst, violence. Realistically, she was in no condition to deal with either. In spite of the somewhat improved rations she had been given over the last few days, she was still cold and undernourished; still bearing the weakness that came with prolonged hunger.

The farm-pony approached, her voice sounding again, and Trixie realized that there were two sets of hoof-falls approaching, not just one. Although, whoever the country mare was talking to had a much lighter tread, almost inaudible at a greater distance. Then, the mare’s companion replied, and although her softly-spoken words were whipped away by wind and distance, there was no mistaking that voice.

An instant ago, Trixie’s insides had been squirming uncomfortably with apprehension. Now, however, it felt as if her insides had suddenly and entirely vanished.

That’s not fair. That’s not fair at all.

The voices had lapsed momentarily into silence, and Trixie sat, hugging herself with a barely-contained panic as the two ponies crunched by along the track, apparently heading for the field of mottled, shining trees. Sure enough, the hoof-falls halted. There was a silence, then a low, impressed whistle.

A short conversation followed, the participants’ voices low, the words once again lost to the weather, then all fell silent again. Underlying Trixie’s fear, only half-acknowledge, was a burning sense of frustration. Why had the pegasus chosen this place? This time? Trixie had tried to make a clean break of it, to cut herself off before things spiraled out of control, for both their sakes. She knew all too well that such a one-sided attraction could only lead to obsession and madness, and she had no wish to force this delicate, innocent mare to suffer at the hooves of a half-deranged stalker.

Gripped by a sudden curiosity, she stood, and crept around the side of the tool-shed. The voices had not resumed, and she half-hoped that the coast might now be clear. Taking a deep breath, her heart thumping almost painfully against her ribs, she leaned her hooded head around the rotting wooden wall. Sure enough, the leather-hatted earth pony whom she had humiliated was there, leaning down to inspect the trunk of one of the trees.

The mysterious pegasus was there, too; she was standing, facing away from Trixie, and looking around at the field with a small half-smile at her handiwork. Trixie stepped halfway out from behind the shed, teetering. She was unwilling to tear her gaze away, knowing that this was, in all likelihood, the last time she would see the mare. At the same time, she was wondering if she might be able to make a break for it, across the track into the other fields.

There was little point retracing her steps back to the Everfree; she had still not found any food, and privately, she wondered if there was any point in going back even if she did get her hooves on some supplies. The place, with its danger and solitude, no longer held the slightest attraction for her. She supposed, once again, that it could be a good sign that she no longer wanted to live alone. The only difficulty now lay in finding an alternative, trapped as she was between a death-trap of a forest, and a town that hated her.

Remember, there’s still a third option.

Then, before she could pursue the train of thought any further, the primrose mare turned idly on the spot, and her gaze swept straight across to where Trixie was still standing, like a fool, out in the open. With a barely-suppressed yelp of panic, she dived back out of sight, but the damage was already done. She sat in the snow, her head murky, filled with a hazing mix of fear and the image of those eyes, piercing and bright even through the falling snow.

She forced herself to remain calm, although she was half-expecting to hear hoof-falls approaching through the snow, towards her hiding place. She was not afraid of the canary pegasus, despite the cloud of complications that hung around her image in Trixie’s mind, but her agricultural friend was another matter entirely. She could not move now; even if the mare had only caught a glimpse of her movement, she would still be in a heightened state of alertness.

The voice of the farm-pony sounded again, laced with concern. This time, the concealed unicorn caught a few of the latter words: “…I’m worried about you, hon. You’re not yerself; not yerself at all.”

Oh Celestia, thought Trixie, a new wave of guilt breaking over her. She had not considered that this might occur. She’s worried about me. She knew I needed help, that’s why she gave me the blanket… then the blizzard came down, and I never came back to her house. She… she must think… She shied away from the thought. She had seen all too clearly how empathic a creature this mare was. Trixie’s sudden absence must be causing her untold worry.

If I stay, I’ll hurt her. If I go, I’ll hurt her, she thought, dejectedly. Down the road, the conversation had started again. The earth pony’s voice was quieter now, and once again it was impossible to make out her words. She seemed to be comforting the pegasus, judging by her tone. Trixie’s stomach squirmed with an undeniable pang of jealousy, and in that moment, she came to a decision.

I’ll go. I’ll get out of here while I can still bring myself to. She’s got her friends, she’ll forget about me soon enough. It’ll be better for both of us, in the end.

But how? Going back the way she came would be pointless. Waiting for them to return was risky, but then so was making a break for it. Chancing another look around the edge of the shed, she saw that the timid mare had gratefully embraced her friend, and neither of them were looking in Trixie’s direction. It was now or never. Seizing her moment, Trixie half-galloped, as quietly as she could, across the road. She prayed that the wind would conceal the crunching of her hooves. Reaching the opposite field, she began to dart from tree to tree, determinedly not looking back.

Soon enough she would be out of the pegasus’s range of vision; the snow would render her invisible. It was not without a vague pang of fearful loss that she walked away from the beautiful, mysterious mare. She had been thrown a line, or perhaps an olive branch, and she was walking away. The decision felt somehow final.

You’re an idiot, Trixie. I hope you know that.

She suppressed the thought. Once again, it was growing hard to think clearly in any meaningful capacity; she had, in all honesty, nowhere to go. She wondered idly if, by not responding to the mare’s invitation, she had committed suicide. It hardly seemed to matter.

Away from that mare, with no intention of ever looking into those eyes again, she realized the degree to which her life, and future intentions, had been tied to her. This last week, the pegasus had been the only thing preventing her from accepting the futility of her situation, the unwitting beacon to which she had tied her vague and transient hopes for a future beyond this winter.

Now, however, she saw her predicament in all its clarity. She could not return to the forest and expect to survive, she could not expect acceptance in Ponyville, and, for some reason, she would not accept the help of the one who offered it. This time, however, the sense of hopelessness did not send panic rising like bile in her throat. She was beyond caring.

Confusion was such an active word; it implied whirling thoughts and panic, but now that Trixie’s mind had settled, she realized that true confusion was a far more subtle and passive thing. She was blank. She did not know who she was, she did not know who she ought to be, and she did not, ultimately, know what she wanted. She had been so many ponies, she had set herself so many goals, she had wanted so many different things.

What did it matter if it all came to an end? What consistency was there to miss, or to be remembered? Somehow, strangely, the thought almost gave her hope. If her life mattered so little to her A million conflicting thoughts were the same as none at all, and a blank slate could be written upon afresh.

She supposed that, having come this far, she might as least see what supplies or shelter she could find. Vaulting the stile built into the well-kept wooden fence at the edge of the field, Trixie found herself near the farmhouse. This was a riskier venture, but it was, quite literally, more likely to bear fruit. Of course, she kept her guard up, ready to flee if anypony out walking on the farm caught sight of her.

For the best part of fifteen minutes, she searched, scanning fields and outbuildings. At length, nosing inside an old but well-maintained barn, several fields away from the farmhouse, she discovered six or seven bushels of the large, leathery-skinned apples, sitting in the shadows against the back wall. The building was large and draughty, but compared to the outside world, and with the benefit of Trixie’s winter coat, it was positively warm. One wall was stacked high with bales of old straw, and there was a windowless and dilapidated upstairs area, filled with all kinds of junk from broken plough-shafts to rusted pots.

Pensively, Trixie inspected her surroundings. She could not stay here in plain view, of course; the barn was still clearly in semi-regular use. However, if she were to cart some of the straw upstairs, it might be possible to make a hidden makeshift bed, towards the back of the dark and windowless storage space. She could become stronger with the warmth, and the few apples she skimmed off each bushel would surely not be noticed. She could wait out the blizzard up there, and maybe even strike out for Trottingham before the winter ended.

Above all, the most gratifying aspect was the knowledge that she would no longer be sponging food from the primrose mare, who seemed so determined to waste her kindness on a pony who refused to be helped. The thought of stealing still stuck in her throat, no matter the victim, but this was a farm; an industrial operation. It was still degrading, still amoral and unpleasant, but she found it a little easier to rationalize. Besides, it would not be for long.

How many times have I heard this, Trixie? This is just as transparent and fragile as all your other plans.

In truth, it was impossible to tell how realistic her intentions were. All she wanted at that point was to eat and rest, out of the snow and the biting wind.

Prizing the lid from one of the bushels, Trixie magically grabbed three apples, dropped two down onto the lid, and crunched into the first. It was a little sour, but at that moment she was not complaining. She knew that she could not survive on these apples alone, and that she would be all but unable to move from stomach pains the next day if she ate too many, but at least they took the edge off her hunger. If she needed additional sustenance, she supposed that the straw was perfectly digestible.

Animal food, she thought, wryly.

She was so engrossed in her first proper meal of the day, too caught between the indolent acceptance of her fate and the suddenly-rekindled will to survive, that she did not hear the mouse-quiet creak as the door of the barn was pushed gently ajar behind her. She did not hear delicate steps approaching behind her.

All she knew was that a hoof had suddenly touched her, gently, on the shoulder.

The next few seconds would be indelibly burned into her memory. She inhaled sharply, choking on her mouthful of apple, and jolted in shock, immediately coughing up the sliver of fruit that she had inhaled. In that split-second, she was only aware of one thought; she had been found. She had been found by the orange mare who owned the farm, out for revenge, or perhaps by one of the assistants, come to make a delivery of apples to the barn. She needed to flee, before they could tie her up and question her. She needed to get away.

Almost instantly, she spun on the spot, giving a strangulated cry of shock that was halfway between choking and screaming, her horn flaring in reflexive defence. She did not intend to attack, but her instincts had acted in her stead before she could stop them. She lashed out with a whipping fist of bright, flaring magic, catching the pony behind her hard in the face as she turned.

She was not a powerful unicorn; she could not wield much strength with her horn alone, but it was enough. The pony spun from the blow and staggered backwards. Her head cracked hard against the doorframe, and she sank to the straw-strewn floor. Her face was suddenly illuminated by the weak winter light as she lay on her back, looking up at her attacker with those enormous aqua eyes. Her gaze registered nothing but shock, and a trickle of blood ran down her forehead from a jagged, inch-long cut on her temple.

The world seemed to take a breath.

Trixie stood as still as a statue, staring down into those tearful eyes, unable to face the silent, agonized question that burned in them: why?

It was a question she could never answer.

This was not possible. It did not make sense. She could not have made a mistake of this magnitude; her mind refused to accept it. She opened her mouth, but all that came out was a hoarse, grating sound.

Another moment. Another beat of silence. All was still. The first drop of blood trickled to the base of the mare’s cheek, clinging for an instant to her jaw. Her lip was trembling, but there was no fear in those eyes.

The first drop of blood fell; the first tick of the metronome.

Trixie ran.

She had never run so fast in her life. She did not care where she was going; she did not care if she was seen. They could hunt her, they could lynch her. She welcomed them. The farmhouse was gone, lost far behind her in the snow. The barn was lost too, the one pony who cared for her left bleeding inside, one more betrayal for the seemingly-endless tally.

She slipped on the slushy track, turning over a hoof and catching her knee painfully on a fencepost, but she stayed standing, and did not slacken her pace. She ran through fields, rank upon rank of wooden skeletons staring down accusingly at her.

I want to die.

It was the first time she had acknowledged the thought; the first time her ambivalence to survival had turned full-circle. Once, this world had merely meant little to her. Now, she wanted more than anything to be rid of it. She was beyond the farm now, the Everfree looming ahead of her in the whirling snow. Her home; her tomb.

Then, before she knew it, she was amongst the tree-trunks, wilder than the regimented farm, more dangerous, more like home. Her blanket was still wrapped around her, but her face and hooves were numb with cold. She could have been running for a minute or an hour; it did not matter. Time was irrelevant. She did not feel tired, at any rate.

She did not know where she was; she did not recognize this trackless place.

It was easily a mile from the farmhouse to the Everfree, and in these conditions she should be exhausted, but she felt nothing. She could not think; she refused to think about what she had done.

Why am I not tired?

Then, with that thought, her strength was utterly gone.

She was standing, shivering, in a clearing. The snow here was crisp and white, untouched by animal or pony. The weak, dappled sunlight spotted the ground, and the snow was beginning to encrust her back and neck. The corners of her vision were white, and stars burst in her eyes, sparkling and glittering. She was suddenly acutely aware of the sweat on her neck.

She had no sense of falling. All she knew was that her knees were no longer holding her upright. Her face was resting on the ground, a cold wetness seeping through her makeshift hood.

Her vision wavered. That was good; it was better to avoid a protracted ending to such a sporadic, disjointed story as hers.

This forest will be the death of me; I have known that much from the start.

She did not close her eyes of her own volition, but her eyelids felt unbearably heavy, and they fell inexorably; a drawing-down of blinds at the end of the day. The last thing she saw before the world turned black was the light, cut into angular beams by the bear trees, and those eyes. Deep, aqua, tearful but forgiving.

I owe you this.

She felt herself falling; fading. She smiled to herself.

Oblivion was so much simpler.