bear the sails and forget your promises
There has never been such a thing as home.
Or maybe there has. Maybe home has existed and you are simply too blind to see it. Maybe you are home, maybe you exist at home, and maybe you are subject to its limits and its comforts. Maybe you are stifled at home.
You wonder how you can stop.
Home is far gone. Home is another world. Home is a world filled with magic and mystery, a world with danger and safety around every corner.
She is at home. But you are not satisfied with home. The mirror taunts you. The mirror begs you to fulfil your destiny. But you don't stray. The dissatisfaction is not enough.
She is home because she is family. She is home because she took you in — takes you in, continues to take you in — and nurtures you. She is family because she bothers to stay.
You want to prove it. You want to prove that you deserve family because no one else seems to believe it.
You have a horn on your head but sometimes others look at you and think you should have feathers on your back instead. They see the aerodynamic point of your muzzle, the point of your ears. They see the slight frame of your body, poised to take flight. They see everything but the wings, and their eyes narrow.
They see someone undeserving of the family you've gotten, the family you've earned.
Because some people will look at you and the tight swirls of keratin in your horn and they assume it was easy — but they ignore the point of your muzzle and ears, the slight frame of your body. They ignore the way some times, people look at you like you should have feathers on your back, and they assume you never had to work a day in your life.
But there are two sides to you and everyone but her refuses to see both.
You wonder if you would have more family if you had both wings and a horn.
The mirror taunts you. The dissatisfaction grows.
You'd made assumptions. You assumed you were enough.
You assumed you were the destined one.
She told you that you were.
You aren't.
You aren't. You aren't, you aren't, you aren't you aren't you aren't you aren't.
You are not.
You are… you are the trial run. You are the guinea pig. You are something else she threw at the wall, hoping it would stick and you didn't.
The other student has a pink, six-pointed star on her flank. You have a red-and-gold, six-rayed sun. You understand the difference.
You aren't the destined one.
The mirror taunts.
This dissatisfaction is enough.
This world is new. This world is spectacular but natural. This world is a technological wonder. It is starving of magic.
You know you could go back. You know you may not thrive here.
You are dissatisfied.
You have built yourself on thriving through work.
You are not dissatisfied enough.
No one looks at you here and looks for wings. No one looks at you here and narrows their eyes at your horn. You have neither.
You are human. You have neither.
You are a student. You've always been a student. You don't know how to stop learning. You don't know how to hide your otherworldly existence.
You skip classes, here. You skip all the way to Calculus. You are a freshman. This is early, here. This is early, at home.
Only, this is more home now. No one stares at you and looks for wings. No one stares at your horn. They stare at you nonetheless, but there is awe there. There is respect. You crave it.
You wonder whether you were destined to be here. You crave that destiny.
You can't stay here forever. The mirror- the statue, here, will open again. She- the Princess will come after you.
The dissatisfaction is too much. You need a defence here. You need an army.
But what could defend against magic?
You spend time with the statue. You exist around it.
On one night, the moon is full and you stare into it and you can see things no one else can. You see a release. You see a destiny you should have assumed.
Your dissatisfaction grows. Your resentment grows. Your resistance shrinks.
You spent more time than you can remember, learning. You learnt about the artefacts you were meant to assume.
The pink, six-pointed star of a gem.
You don't have a pink, six-pointed star, but you have a red-and-gold, six-rayed sun. You think that is enough.
There is a coronation. There is a full moon and there is a coronation. You are just barely a sophomore and there is a dance coming soon. You have an army — hardly willing, but hardly unbroken. You just need a spark.
There is a coronation, and the other student has wings. You wonder if she's ever had someone stare at her and believe she should have wings instead of a horn.
You look at her rounded muzzle, her rounded ears. You look at the heavy-mountain frame. She is a pureblood. A descendant of unicorns. No one would question a horn on her head. And yet, she has both and no one questions the wings on her back
Your dissatisfaction boils.
You have an army.
You just need a spark.
You are prepared. You are easily despicable. You cross the mirror in the dead of night, knowing you are unexpected. A part of you had hoped for a welcome — even a hostile one — but you are satisfied with this.
In a way, you wonder if you are home.
There's a difference — the slightest one, in the slightest areas, paid the slightest attention. There's a weight to it. The magic is heavy in the air and there's a breath behind it, a life that's supernatural in a way that you've forgotten and missed.
In a way that makes you forget what you've left behind.
For a moment, you forget your army. You forget your spark. You forget the red-and-gold and the six rays and the destiny it will help you steal.
You turn.
The mirror is there. The mirror taunts you. You stare into it and you remember the destinies you were promised, the destinies that were ripped from you.
You think about the human stories you've read, of the tales of the prodigal son returning without indication, of the havoc he caused his family.
You did not forget the promises made. Those promises — those premises — were broken by the Princess. But you refuse to fly your sails. You have returned without indication.
You wonder what havoc you will wreak upon the Princess and her little heir.