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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Vice Versa
"Well, she's not an average unicorn, is she?"
The filly could see them in her mind's eye. Father, stalking in ever-shrinking spirals like one of the tigers from her animated picture books. The grey-jacketed stallion, beard quivering at the end of his muzzle, slowly backing into a corner like the goat who the heroine had to save. Waiting, cringing, for the pounce.
"No foal is, ma'am." The stallion's voice was muffled through the heavy door, but she thought she caught a hint of the same tone she used when Mother refused her an after-dinner sweet. "But she's only eleven, and most ponies don't develop adult levels of control until their teens. She's going to make exemplary contributions to thaumaturgy, but we must allow that to happen at its own pace."
"She is a prodigy, Meister." Father's voice shifted from fang to frost. "Like her brother is. Like her parents before her. Six generations of mages will not settle for 'average'. And if you won't help her reach that potential …" Father's voice dropped, almost too soft to hear. "We'll find somepony who will."
The filly's mouth began to water as the butler lifted the lids from the trays. Buttered carrots and fried potatoes! And then he reached her own … only to reveal a single bowl of broth, and a spoon so broad and shallow that it more closely resembled a spatula.
"Finish your soup, dearest," Mother said before she could protest. "Good fillies who eat what they're served get to have the rest of their dinner."
Confused, she leaned down to drink it, only to be sharply rapped on the nose with the spoon. "Manners."
Her objection died on her lips at Mother's expression. Swallowing through a dry throat, she pushed energy into her horn, fighting through the feedback as it sputtered weakly to life, wrestling to wrap the inertial link around the utensil's handle as the spell's energy spasmed and wriggled.
As the spoon danced around her side of the table, caroming off the salt shaker and Father's plate, the skin around her horn grew hot. She felt a trickle of sweat drip down her forehead. She didn't dare reach up to wipe it away.
Long minutes later, punctuated only by the clinks of colliding tableware and her brother's uneasy coughing, the spoon ricocheted off the side of her bowl and then hung in midair. She sucked in a breath and held it, eyes locked on the hovering metal. She slowly tilted her head to the side, watching the spoon rotate accordingly.
She lowered her head. The end of the spoon dipped in.
She raised it. The spoon rose, the extra weight of the soup unbalancing it. The soup dribbled out of the shallow depression, splashing onto her plate and tablecloth.
She went to bed hungry.
The filly stared at the heavy curtain as Mother stepped out and closed the door, the same way she used to stare through the window before Father caught her. She could see the outside in her mind's eye: pegasi flying through the crisp Canterlot air; street vendors hauling their carts to the market, luring customers with the scents of exotic spices; foals laughing and shouting, galloping down the streets.
She stomped back to the desk and sat down, glancing at the door, wondering how long Mother would wait outside and listen. She glanced at the books. Six of them, one for each of the classical schools of thaumaturgy. She wrapped her hornfield around them one by one, grunting only a little as they lifted from the desk, then floated them back to her empty bookshelf.
Her stomach grumbled. She'd mastered the soup spoon, but they'd added a second course of Qilinese fried rice and two simple eating-sticks. She ate so slowly these days that she never felt full.
All we want is to help you get your Cutie Mark, Mother had said. It's time you began using your talents to their fullest.
Well, she had thought this morning, perhaps it is.
She stood again, silently this time, and crept to the window, closing her eyes and summoning her focus. The curtain nailed across the window shimmered and faded, to be replaced with evening sky. The bottom pane of glass similarly evaporated. She slipped through the window into the bushes outside.
"And now, for my first spell," she whispered as she crept across the lawn and vaulted the fence, "the great and powerful Trixie will disappear."
The filly could see them in her mind's eye. Father, stalking in ever-shrinking spirals like one of the tigers from her animated picture books. The grey-jacketed stallion, beard quivering at the end of his muzzle, slowly backing into a corner like the goat who the heroine had to save. Waiting, cringing, for the pounce.
"No foal is, ma'am." The stallion's voice was muffled through the heavy door, but she thought she caught a hint of the same tone she used when Mother refused her an after-dinner sweet. "But she's only eleven, and most ponies don't develop adult levels of control until their teens. She's going to make exemplary contributions to thaumaturgy, but we must allow that to happen at its own pace."
"She is a prodigy, Meister." Father's voice shifted from fang to frost. "Like her brother is. Like her parents before her. Six generations of mages will not settle for 'average'. And if you won't help her reach that potential …" Father's voice dropped, almost too soft to hear. "We'll find somepony who will."
The filly's mouth began to water as the butler lifted the lids from the trays. Buttered carrots and fried potatoes! And then he reached her own … only to reveal a single bowl of broth, and a spoon so broad and shallow that it more closely resembled a spatula.
"Finish your soup, dearest," Mother said before she could protest. "Good fillies who eat what they're served get to have the rest of their dinner."
Confused, she leaned down to drink it, only to be sharply rapped on the nose with the spoon. "Manners."
Her objection died on her lips at Mother's expression. Swallowing through a dry throat, she pushed energy into her horn, fighting through the feedback as it sputtered weakly to life, wrestling to wrap the inertial link around the utensil's handle as the spell's energy spasmed and wriggled.
As the spoon danced around her side of the table, caroming off the salt shaker and Father's plate, the skin around her horn grew hot. She felt a trickle of sweat drip down her forehead. She didn't dare reach up to wipe it away.
Long minutes later, punctuated only by the clinks of colliding tableware and her brother's uneasy coughing, the spoon ricocheted off the side of her bowl and then hung in midair. She sucked in a breath and held it, eyes locked on the hovering metal. She slowly tilted her head to the side, watching the spoon rotate accordingly.
She lowered her head. The end of the spoon dipped in.
She raised it. The spoon rose, the extra weight of the soup unbalancing it. The soup dribbled out of the shallow depression, splashing onto her plate and tablecloth.
She went to bed hungry.
The filly stared at the heavy curtain as Mother stepped out and closed the door, the same way she used to stare through the window before Father caught her. She could see the outside in her mind's eye: pegasi flying through the crisp Canterlot air; street vendors hauling their carts to the market, luring customers with the scents of exotic spices; foals laughing and shouting, galloping down the streets.
She stomped back to the desk and sat down, glancing at the door, wondering how long Mother would wait outside and listen. She glanced at the books. Six of them, one for each of the classical schools of thaumaturgy. She wrapped her hornfield around them one by one, grunting only a little as they lifted from the desk, then floated them back to her empty bookshelf.
Her stomach grumbled. She'd mastered the soup spoon, but they'd added a second course of Qilinese fried rice and two simple eating-sticks. She ate so slowly these days that she never felt full.
All we want is to help you get your Cutie Mark, Mother had said. It's time you began using your talents to their fullest.
Well, she had thought this morning, perhaps it is.
She stood again, silently this time, and crept to the window, closing her eyes and summoning her focus. The curtain nailed across the window shimmered and faded, to be replaced with evening sky. The bottom pane of glass similarly evaporated. She slipped through the window into the bushes outside.
"And now, for my first spell," she whispered as she crept across the lawn and vaulted the fence, "the great and powerful Trixie will disappear."