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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
A Little Bit of Silver
I set down the rag and sighed. The thing just looked awful.
“Every time,” I said. “Every time we go somewhere, this blasted badge needs cleaning. Why can’t it ever not start tarnishing the instant I put it away?”
“Silver always does if you don’t store it right, sir.”
My glare didn’t cow the boy much, so credit where credit is due. He wasn’t much older than I’d been when I’d joined the Royal Guard, and had all the greenhorn earmarks: a lustrous white coat that practically glowed in the dark; hooves that hadn’t cracked; a perfectly groomed mane and a horn as straight and sharp as one of my mother’s old needles.
But it was always the eyes that gave really them away and he was no exception. Blue as an unstirred pond, they sparkled with restrained amusement as I continued scrubbing at the tarnish that somehow formed while my badge had been in its supposedly watertight box. They didn’t glimmer, they didn’t burn, and they definitely didn’t pierce. They just sparkled.
After a few more minutes, I sighed and set the cloth aside again. My joints ached, but I stood, cracked my neck once or twice, and walked to the window to get some air as the polish set. The newbie joined me at the window not long after, and we watched the Saddle Arabians as we waited. Some wore veils and others simply endured each new gust of wind and the million little stings it sent flying in their faces, foals occasionally popping out of alleyways and darting through the streets, laughing and shouting and screaming in play. A few rather lovely mares sometimes came out to gather them not long after to lead their charges back to wherever it was they had to go when they weren’t causing mischief.
“So,” I muttered as one mare scolded a rambunctious colt. “You have anypony waiting back home?”
“Well… ”
I snorted. “You do.”
“How–”
“You’ve gone red, kid, and you’re a greenhorn to boot. Greenhorns always have somepony they want to impress. So, you caught her yet or are you still beating around the bush?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I guessed as much.”
As he sputtered, I took a different cloth in my hoof and went back to my space on the floor, doing everything short of scraping that cursed badge along the stone beneath us as I tried to clean the polish off again. He watched me, still sputtering and now hiding behind his mane like some shy filly at the prom.
“Sir,” he said when he’d finally gotten control of himself again. “You do know they have spells for that, right?”
I stopped scrubbing, working the kinks out of my ankle before refreshing the assault. “They have spells for getting somepony to love you, too. You ever use one?”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Why?”
“Love can’t be forced.”
“Sure it can. I just told you that.”
“True love can’t be forced.”
“I’ve seen more than a couple of those spells last several decades.”
That hit a nerve; he stomped a hoof. “True love can’t be forced.”
“Because?”
It took a lot to keep from smiling again. The look on his face was some wondrous mix of deep confusion, unsure pity and blood-curdling irritation. The same look a teacher might get when a student’s being contradictory for the sake of being contradictory, not because he actually wants to learn something. I motioned for him to sit down across from me. I wetted my rag in warm water and worked the badge over once or twice with it to clean off the last bits of polish, before putting it in the newbie’s hoof where it glinted in the late day sun.
“Love’s like a badge, kid. The only way you appreciate it is by giving yourself a few aches to get it, and a few more to keep it.”
He stared at the little hunk of silver for a few moments, before looking up at me. Though it took some time, I saw that big, dopey grin only young, love-struck idiots can get cross his face and he gave me a sharp salute before handing it back.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.” I slung the badge about my chest, straightening it before marching for the door. “Now get moving, Private Armor. The sooner the Princess finishes these talks, the sooner you’ll be able to go and get the girl.”
“Every time,” I said. “Every time we go somewhere, this blasted badge needs cleaning. Why can’t it ever not start tarnishing the instant I put it away?”
“Silver always does if you don’t store it right, sir.”
My glare didn’t cow the boy much, so credit where credit is due. He wasn’t much older than I’d been when I’d joined the Royal Guard, and had all the greenhorn earmarks: a lustrous white coat that practically glowed in the dark; hooves that hadn’t cracked; a perfectly groomed mane and a horn as straight and sharp as one of my mother’s old needles.
But it was always the eyes that gave really them away and he was no exception. Blue as an unstirred pond, they sparkled with restrained amusement as I continued scrubbing at the tarnish that somehow formed while my badge had been in its supposedly watertight box. They didn’t glimmer, they didn’t burn, and they definitely didn’t pierce. They just sparkled.
After a few more minutes, I sighed and set the cloth aside again. My joints ached, but I stood, cracked my neck once or twice, and walked to the window to get some air as the polish set. The newbie joined me at the window not long after, and we watched the Saddle Arabians as we waited. Some wore veils and others simply endured each new gust of wind and the million little stings it sent flying in their faces, foals occasionally popping out of alleyways and darting through the streets, laughing and shouting and screaming in play. A few rather lovely mares sometimes came out to gather them not long after to lead their charges back to wherever it was they had to go when they weren’t causing mischief.
“So,” I muttered as one mare scolded a rambunctious colt. “You have anypony waiting back home?”
“Well… ”
I snorted. “You do.”
“How–”
“You’ve gone red, kid, and you’re a greenhorn to boot. Greenhorns always have somepony they want to impress. So, you caught her yet or are you still beating around the bush?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I guessed as much.”
As he sputtered, I took a different cloth in my hoof and went back to my space on the floor, doing everything short of scraping that cursed badge along the stone beneath us as I tried to clean the polish off again. He watched me, still sputtering and now hiding behind his mane like some shy filly at the prom.
“Sir,” he said when he’d finally gotten control of himself again. “You do know they have spells for that, right?”
I stopped scrubbing, working the kinks out of my ankle before refreshing the assault. “They have spells for getting somepony to love you, too. You ever use one?”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Why?”
“Love can’t be forced.”
“Sure it can. I just told you that.”
“True love can’t be forced.”
“I’ve seen more than a couple of those spells last several decades.”
That hit a nerve; he stomped a hoof. “True love can’t be forced.”
“Because?”
It took a lot to keep from smiling again. The look on his face was some wondrous mix of deep confusion, unsure pity and blood-curdling irritation. The same look a teacher might get when a student’s being contradictory for the sake of being contradictory, not because he actually wants to learn something. I motioned for him to sit down across from me. I wetted my rag in warm water and worked the badge over once or twice with it to clean off the last bits of polish, before putting it in the newbie’s hoof where it glinted in the late day sun.
“Love’s like a badge, kid. The only way you appreciate it is by giving yourself a few aches to get it, and a few more to keep it.”
He stared at the little hunk of silver for a few moments, before looking up at me. Though it took some time, I saw that big, dopey grin only young, love-struck idiots can get cross his face and he gave me a sharp salute before handing it back.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.” I slung the badge about my chest, straightening it before marching for the door. “Now get moving, Private Armor. The sooner the Princess finishes these talks, the sooner you’ll be able to go and get the girl.”