A Blueberry and Her Greenery

[Gentian]

This is a story I wrote some time ago as a greentext on 4chan. I didn't really have a plan for it, and more or less made it up as I went. Fortune smiled on me, though, and I ended up with something which was fairly well received. It's also one of my personal favorites despite being in "green" format. In fact, because I like it so much, I'd been toying with the idea of changing it to prose. For whatever reason, I finally decided to get started.

It will be re-released in pieces as time and caprice allow. I'm debating whether or not to include the original as a pdf for people who like the story but don't want to wait for the next installment, or maybe a link to my pastebin, but I don't want to spoil it either. Maybe a description will suffice instead?

This story is a Human-in-Equestria one. It is, despite the way it begins, ultimately a romance. The Equestria portrayed herein is a mix of my then-head canon, and what I think works for the story, despite not being the way I thought Equestria really was. I also wrote this story before Twilight began to speak to me, so it wasn't made with her input, either.

Neither does it feature her, so i wasn't sure whether or not to post it here, but I see other users have submitted pony-but-not-waifu stories, so I'll give it a shot too. Presumably a staff member will let me know if it doesn't belong. It's getting its own thread, because it'll have multiple chapters, and I don't want to spread them out in my "Lexical Tomfoolery" thread. I'll probably link it there, though.

Despite Twilight being my marefriend, and loving her with all my heart, Trixie is one of my favorite ponies. I didn't become interested in ponies until I saw Rainbow Rocks, and when first getting involved in a show that's so far along, even when it's based on reality like FiM is, the process can feel a little daunting. Trixie was one of the first ponies to have enough of her personality displayed to stimulate my imagination. Despite the fact I didn't like her at all when she first appeared, the more I thought about her, and why she was the way she was, the more interesting she became. After the Alicorn Amulet fiasco, she was firmly cemented as one of my all time favorite characters in any media.

Eventually, as you know, Twilight contacted me, and I found out that Equestria is real, if not much at all like we see on our show. Turns out Trixie is real too, and according to Twilers, very, very much like my head canon. Not exactly, of course, but uncannily close. So, if you choose to read, please keep that in mind.

Twilight is friends with Trixie, and I'm looking forward to getting her feedback. I hope she won't be offended by the parts that diverge from her true nature.

Shall we begin?




A Blueberry and Her Greenery

1 - Introductions

Magus of the road. The Wandering Sorceress. The Great and Powerful. That's what they once called her, in her glory days. She traveled where she chose, when she chose, picking directions with the care-free abandon of a stick dropped at forks in the road. Sometimes, she'd sleep until noon, snuggling in the softness of her blankets. Other times, she'd rise before dawn, to watch in appropriate awe as the princesses set the moon and sun in motion.

She went where whim and fortune took her, savoring her freedom. It didn't matter where that was; no sooner was she spotted trundling down the road, than everypony would rush out to meet her. Fillies and colts would swarm her wagon, and force her to stop. Not that she minded, oh no; she loved it! The attention, and wonder on their own were enough to make her smile, and their bright, adoring faces, excitedly clip-clopping around and around her wagon also gave her ample opportunity to show off.

The adult ponies would hang back a bit, but her name was on their lips too. And what a name! Trixie Lulamoon! Redolent of grace, power, and skill, as she would often tell them. They all wanted her attention, and what fun she had giving it to them! On her terms, of course, and in her fame she could dictate those exactly: warm receptions, responsive audiences, and all the status and privilege that comes with celebrity. Her thirst for recognition was easy to slake in those days.

In her glory days, but no longer.

It's a truism that “all things change,” and she can't help her vision blurring, or pace slowing as she remembers the day those particular things did. She won't cry, though. She won't let herself, though the memories sting her time and again like wasps. She is a proud pony, and holds herself to the highest standards.

She still goes where she wants, when she wants. Mostly. She avoids Ponyville these days. Not that she would deign to set hoof in that backwater, anyway! Or so she tells herself. Her reputation still precedes her, but unfortunately, it's not the reputation she wants. No more being met on the road and given a hero's escort to town. No more swelling crowds or cheering fans. And, since it happened, barely a night goes by in which she isn't jerked to panicked wakefulness by the nightmares.

She deserves it. More importantly, she believes she deserves it. She is a proud pony, not a vindictive, or foolish one, and not, despite what many would say, a narcissist. She knows what she has done, and her regret fills her, haunts her, and at times overwhelms her, though that last happens rarely anymore. She is a proud pony, and while she, with a simple spell every unicorn learns in their youth, could banish the nightmares, she does not. She is a proud pony, and her high standards demand she bears this crux for as long as fate decrees she must.

Pride gives her the strength to persevere, but does not numb her pain. Her tears rise, and though she does not let them fall, they make it difficult to pick her way along the rocky path. She stops and takes in the valley spread out before her, glowing reddish in the low sun. Vagabonding definitely has its perks. Experience tells her this isn't the best place to camp, but the princesses will take the light soon, and it is a wonderful place from which to enjoy the transition. She needs that pick-me-up.

Her horn glows, and the harness drops. She wedges the wheels of her wagon, and settles against it with a drink in her hoof, tired, and relaxed in the cool evening air. The sky is a pink-purple now, and the stars just beginning to twinkle in to being when the sun suddenly accelerates below the mountains. A moment later the moon rises. A smile spreads across her pale blue face, filled with happiness at this display of incredible magic.

“They do that so well,” she sighs to herself. “The Princesses' really are fantastic.” They're probably also among the only beings in Equestria she both admires and respects. Some ponies would say that makes her arrogant. To which accusation her retort would be to enquire how she could be held responsible for the fact that they're the only beings actually worthy of her admiration and respect. As if the hoi palloi is in any position to judge.

A sigh, and a cool sip of cider under the stars brings consolation. The canaille are fickle, and wouldn't know art or showponyship if it bit them on the flank! She is great! She is powerful! Just because her soi-disant peers have their snouts up their own nethers doesn't mean a thing!

She is a proud pony, and won't give up. Her will is as hard as her magic is potent. She is adamas: untamable, and won't let herself be brought low by their calumny. She'll keep trying. One day, they'll eat their words, and call her great and powerful again!

One day.

_________________________________________________________________________________________


He wanders alone through the forest. To say he's tired and hungry would be a comical understatement, if the situation weren't so dire. He is lost in the most complete sense of the word. He doesn't know where he is, or where to go; he doesn't know how he got here, or how to get back. Instead, he picks his way among the giant trees, and tangled roots with a stick in his hands and dirty, torn clothes on his back. What else does one do upon awakening with no memory from a fugue in the forest primeval?

He doesn't know how long he's been here; the sun, glimpsed through gaps between branches, and the occasional clearing, will change from a slow meander across the sky, to a lightning fast dash in the blink of an eye. What good is counting days when the days themselves aren't days as you know them? How can one count at all, as hunger, thirst, fatigue and fear erode one's mind?

He doesn't, at this point, even know who he is. What he does know, or at least, strongly suspects, is that rain is imminent. The clouds - some of them even have spikes! - have been gathering all day, and now form a fearsome black thunderhead. It's lop-sided anvil top stretches high over his head, telling him the wind is pushing it his way.

He's torn on this; drinking from water trapped in rocks, and dew sopped up with his shirt is far from appetizing, but this sky looks like the kind to bring far more than just rain. He considers his options as the clouds roll closer, but his mouth feels cottony, his lips have chapped, and ultimately, dangerous or not, he needs the water.

“I'll just have to lay out with my mouth open” he decides, stepping into a clearing. Cautiously, he pokes in the grass to make sure there's nothing else there, and sits down to wait. Quite suddenly, hailstones begin to fall. He makes a dash for the tree-line, stumbling over the uneven terrain.

Before he can rise again, the hail has stopped. Microbursts gust from the sky flattening the grass, and shaking whole trees. The clouds have turned a sickly green, and though it grows darker by the moment, he can see they're undulating like water. This is going to be much worse than a rainshower, he thinks.

“Shelter, shelter, shelter.” his words are lost as a deluge begins. Rain and hail pound the trees, and bounce off the ground around him. In an instant he is soaked to the bone. Frantically he looks around as the hailstones grow larger.

CRACKTAO!!!

Lightning turns a nearby tree to splinters.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He leaps to his feet and sprints as best he can to the middle of the field, assuming a squatting position, with his arms wrapped around his knees. He knows that's what you're supposed to do, but the weather gets worse and worse; the terrible wind blowing both rain and hail in horizontal sheets.

There! Is that a cave? His vision is obscured, but it sure looks like it. He sprints again, right for it, but stops just outside, back hunched against the maelstrom. What if something's in there? His memory is still lost, but so many movies, books, and games have given him a learned, nigh instinctual caution for the dark places of the world which transcends mere memory.

He grunts as a a chunk of ice hits him in the back. That one was big enough to hurt!

“Fuck!” he says again, and rushes inside.