[ Drabble prompt: 1. (childhood) A great day turns terrible in a matter of moments. ]
He is ten, and just barely too young to be participating in the Novice trials, but Mother said it wouldn't hurt to try. You are so smart, Faralda had said, smoothing his bangs aside and smiling at him, I'm sure you'll be the youngest Novice in your age group. Would you like to try?
To make her proud, he'd do anything.
Eldafire is only a handful of years his elder, but she's been attending the Novice trials every year since she turned ten, like him.
"Yeah, they're kind of tough," She told him, sitting on the benches outside the testing arena. Wenselyr sat beside her, swinging his feet. "But don't let them scare you. I heard Testor Urinune is afraid of fish, so if she gets scary, just imagine a big fish coming at her and how she'd scream if it was real." Eldafire pulls a terrified face, laughing when Wenselyr does.
"Anyway, don't be upset if you don't make it. You're still pretty little."
"I'm not little. I'm ten."
"Wenselyr Rancale," His name rings out across the waiting room, and Wenselyr pulls a face before hopping off the bench. Eldafire waves encouragingly at him, and he mimics the gesture and disappears through the doorway. He emerges again, in the arena, and his little body bows to the Inspector. The Inspector bows back, seriously, and begins the testing.
Over the course of the next hour, Eldafire's face gets tighter and tighter, and her knuckles get white with the strength of her grip on the bench. One class of magic after another is tested, and he doesn't score well in all of them, of course he doesn't. But.
Restoration. Poor. Illusion. Poor, but not nil. Fire. Moderate. Alteration. Moderate, not nil. Ice. Perfect score. Eldafire thinks of her own test, earlier that morning. Nil, nil, nil, nil, moderate. The sour taste of jealousy slinks into the back of her throat. He's only ten, he has no right, she is the oldest, she is the heir.
He bounces back into the waiting area, face bright and red with exertion but proud and happy.
She won't look at him. Wenselyr stands in front of her, uncertain. She won't look at him, can't stand to look at him, and eventually he goes to another seat. He keeps watching her, and she wonders when she could make her excuses the soonest. She doesn't want to be there when Mother and Father hear the news.
