In days long past, long before the pegasi were in control of the weather, it was thought that thunderstorms and hail were the creations of great sorcerers. The handful of unicorns with the magical talent to manipulate the weather (who weren't responsible for all of the storms) were not just respected, they were treated as though they were royalty, for no reason other than fear of the power they wielded. This special treatment angered the rulers of the day. How could common unicorns be treated as well as themselves? As a result, the performance of such magic was outlawed. When my mother would tell me this story, she would always end it by saying to me, “Trixie, magic should never be forbidden. A unicorn should learn everything she can, and use it wisely.” The story inspired me to learn to conjure lightning at a young age. It was my first step on a long road—the road to trying to be the powerful unicorn my mother was sure I would one day become.
My mother was a majestic mare, vibrant and beautiful. She served as a professor of advanced magic at the Royal Academy, and was well respected by everypony in Canterlot. Where she really shined, however, was her talent as a powerful magician—she wrote several spells, and even Princess Celestia sought her council on occasion. She was the most important pony in my life, I followed her everywhere for our 10 years together. Then one day I woke up to my father looking shaken, telling me that she was gone; killed by an ursa major. I couldn't believe it, my mother—a powerful sorceress—overpowered by some woodland beast. I wouldn't believe it for so long.
But she never came home. It was all true. She had died, far away from our cozy Canterlot home, leaving behind my father and I. My father, the ever-absent stallion. He was never around when my mother was still alive; never at school plays, never at my birthdays, never with mom on Hearth's Warming Eve, never anywhere to be found. Especially not when she died. I always knew my father wasn't directly responsible for my mother's death, but it didn't matter—he was at least indirectly responsible. Maybe if he had been more caring she wouldn't have been in some dark and terrible cave alone.
I spent six years with my father. Six years imagining all of the ways that I would have saved my mother if I had been there. I imagined the ursa major: it's hideous glowing red eyes, it's long, sharp, and menacing yellowed teeth. I imagined standing before it and destroying it. Over and over again I would imagine my triumph over the ursa, my mother alive and beaming with pride for her daughter—a unicorn that would surely be as powerful and majestic as she. Some days I would feel if I could just imagine it a little longer, it might just become real. After she was gone I struggled through school, and while I thought that magic would come naturally it didn't.
My mother had told me I'd grow up to be a great and powerful unicorn one day. How could I let her down? I missed her voice, her smile, the way that she would fill the house with a loving warmth. It was her presence that made the house a home. My father could never replace or even imitate the warm feeling she brought. Without her the house felt empty, especially when my father was around.
It was for that reason that I never felt strange leaving it behind. I took all of the bits I had saved since I had a been a little filly and I bought a second-hoof cart that—after more bits—was converted for use in my magic shows. The cart was special, and it was mine, but it was often more of a setback than anything. Panels of wood swelled or began to rot and had to be replaced, bits of metal rusted and sometimes on steep hills the wheels would come off for what seemed like no reason. The bits that went toward fixing the cart came out of my budget for magical objects and relics.