A Blueberry and Her Greenery

[Gentian]

A Blueberry and Her Greenery

6 – Master and Cosset

Nearly a week passes by the hot spring. Anon and Trixie resting, healing wounds, cleaning clothes, and getting to know one another. Day after day, night after night, the sun and moon follow their strange procession through the sky, framed by the boulders, and tops of trees.

Day after day, Trixie practices her magic; new tricks, and new flourishes! Even a unicorn as great and powerful as she can't allow herself to fall in to a rut. Anon? Well, he doesn't have much choice but to watch, though he never complains. In fact, even her simplest tricks leave him amazed. Trixie, of course, can tell, and while she would never admit it, his genuine wonder inspires her to practice all the harder, and makes it that much more fun.

A showpony's livelihood depends on her wit, and talent for subterfuge. Trixie, the Brilliant and Beautiful is no exception. With naught but a well-honed skill for observation, fed with the trimmings of subtle incisive questions, she discovers things about him at a shocking rate. Teasing out the threads of his memories, and patterns of his emotions, until the whole tapestry of Anon is laid out before her with him none the wiser. And she likes what she sees: stories, an entire other world's worth!

A world with only one sapient species! A sun, and moon which move on their own! And hardest to believe of all: no magic! As if. Well, she doesn't care whether they're all real or not, there are far less entertaining ways to fill the cool, quiet nights around the fire. So they talk, and she regales him with tales of her adventures, in exchange for stories of his home.

Still, for all that, his memory is incomplete, and he's, ignorant of things anyone who grew up in Equestria, would know, pony or not. As the days go on, it becomes more and more apparent how complete his dependence on her is, and she relishes it. Not cruely, for she is not cruel, though many mistake her mien of arrogance for that particular flaw. Neither obviously, for she is far too proud to wear such a deep piece of her soul on her sleeve, but when Anon is cold, she enjoys giving him blankets. When he is hungry, she takes pleasure in sharing her oats, though they are expensive. She even relents, and lets him wear his clothes, on the condition they be kept clean, and in good repair. He must, of course mind hers too, should she choose to wear them.

Night after night, Trixie disappears into her wagon, while Anon curls in his blankets beneath it; Trixie is not cruel, but she is proud, and would never let a mere servant share her bed. But he doesn't mind; as the fire dies to the soft chirps of crickets, he's filled not with the terror of the caves, or desperation of waking lost in the forest, but with wonder at this strange, and magical place he has found, and for that he is grateful.

As Trixie snuggles down in her blankets she thinks of the things he says, and the things he does. How he asks her questions, and actually listens to her answers, no matter how lengthy or self-aggrandizing they become. Not because she's his employer, but because he's interested. She would have detected tail-nosing from the start, and while she would have accepted it, real enthusiasm tastes much sweeter.

She also thinks of the way he smells. How he says all humans smell like that when they sweat, and how incredulous she had been to learn they don't like it.

Humans...
humans are silly.

___________________________________


Humans are weak.

Even among strong humans, the ones who fancy themselves as strong, know that they are only mighty in comparison to other humans, and would not triumph in a contest of raw strength against most other animals. This doesn't come as a surprise to many humans themselves, but to a pony it most certainly does. After all, they're so big! So tall, so imposing! But not strong at all, as Trixie has come to learn.

Even a few hours in to the first day back on the road, it was clear things weren't going to work out the way she'd hoped. Anon was weak, and that meant he was slow, even on level ground; there was no way she could complete her yearly circuit of Equestria with him pulling the wagon. Even though it was spring, the seasons would turn, and snow would be upon them before they could circle back to the south.

And that was on flat ground. They were heading north, roughly toward the pass over Foal Mountain, and shortly after leaving the spring had started to come down out of Rambling Rock Ridge. That meant slopes, and with Anon harnessed to the wagon, slopes meant trouble!

Trixie had decided that her weight was too much for him to bear, and had been walking along as the road began to tilt. It was the perfect vantage to see that even on such a gentle downgrade, and without her riding along, he was having to lean heavily back against the wagon. Then it happened: the surface gave, Anon slipped, and it was only Trixie the Great and Watchful's quick reflexes, and potent magic which kept it from running him over, and careening out of control.

“How am I supposed to relax, study, or do anything at all, when I might have to leap to the rescue at any moment?” She'd asked them both. Anon, wisely, had said nothing; there really was only one answer, and her tone made it clear she already knew what that was, even if she didn't like it: she couldn't. Humans, it seems just aren't as strong as equines. So, for the last few days, as the steep, dry hills changed to a grassy tree-dotted plain, Trixie, the Great and Powerful has pulled her own wagon, while her putative servant strolls alongside. She's not a happy pony, even if Anon does smell good.

And he can tell. He can't observe as keenly as Trixie, but he doesn't need to. She is not a cruel pony, and will not make him pull the wagon when he is so obviously ill-suited to it, but her pride chafes at this social-reversal, and she isn't in the mood to hide it. She's become quieter, and the easy conversations they'd enjoyed by the spring are gone, replaced by an uneasy silence. When she does speak, her words are curt, and her tone snippy. He wants to help her, and he thinks he knows a way.

“We're stopping here, Anon.”

“All right Great and Powerful One, let me help you,” he says walking over, and reaching for the harness' buckles.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie doesn't need your help, Anon.” He pauses. She'd practically spat it. The buckles flared pink and dropped to the road. “Pull it off to the side, Anon. There's a stream beyond those trees,” her snout gestured to the right. “Get some water and make dinner” She disappeared into her wagon, and he did as he was told.

“Dinner is ready, Great, and Powerful One,” he says at last, with a knock on her door. She emerges, sulks her way to the fire, and begins to eat. He watches her take one glum bite after another. “Great and Powerful One,” he begins, “I can tell you're upset. Will you let me do something for you?”

“Like what? You can't pull the vardo, you can't work magic, and you can't eat hay. The Great and Powerful Trixie is stuck feeding you oats.” Then in a small voice: “I want the oats.” She pouts in to the flames.

“It's something special, Great and Powerful One. Something humans do for one another when we...when we care.” She looks up at him. “You're always pulling the cart,” he says, sitting at her hooves. “And I think you must be sore.” With narrowed eyes, she watches him reach out and cup her pastern, gently lifting it and setting it in his lap. She sits impassively, no longer chewing, just silently looking him in the eyes. “I'm not being too familiar am I,” he asks resting his other hand on her cannon.

Silence.

Gently he begins to stroke along its length, lightly at first, then with gentle pressure. His fingers following the grain of her fur. It's extremely soft, and very fine. She's chewing again, but not so gloomily as before. Reaching under her leg, up to her hock; pinching his way down to her fetlock. Again, and again, each pass finding her leg softer, and more relaxed.

She's staring intently in to the fire, an uncertain look on her face as he lays his hands back on the blue velvet of her cannon. Running them smoothly, from hock to fetlock, and down over her pastern. Then cupping it again, and combining the motions. Rubbing her pastern; caressing her coronet: lightly running his fingertips at the bare joint of hoof and fur. Then working his way from hock to coronet again. A quiet sigh escapes her lips.

He glances up to find her eyes are closed. With a smile he continues along her hoof wall to her heel. Massaging her frog; pressing and rolling in little circles. She winces and melts.

I must be doing well, he thinks.

Up and down, from hock to hoof, over, and over. Feeling the tension drain from her body with each careful pass. Kneading her hooves with the unique finesse of fingers, and the affection of a truly grateful heart. On, and on. First one, then the other. His entire world narrowing down to firm muscle under soft blue fur, and a unicorn who's lost herself in his touch.

…

She hasn't moved or made a sound in some time. Her breath is deep, and rhythmic. He can't help but smile as he places her hooves back on the ground. Gently he brushes an errant strand of mane from her face, and covers her with his own blanket, then softly: “Good night, Trixie.”

He cleans up, and lays down a short distance away. The night is clear, and the fire is warm. As it fades, he drifts off to pleasant, and unexpected thoughts of Trixie.