[RGRE] Brandywine Bordeaux - Nurse Braveheart


                                            >"Brandywine, I've put up with your fanciful notions for long enough."

                                            >You are Brandywine Bordeaux, and your secret has been found out.

                                            >Your mother, Burgundy Bordeaux, tosses your medical textbooks onto the dinner table with an angry and sloppy hoof.

                                            >"You want to become a nurse?  Why in the world would you want that when you have our wonderful winery?"

                                            >She gestures out the open window at the Itailian hills your family owns, all smattered with green and purple grapes from your vineyard.

                                            >You can see ponies wandering the vineyard - some of them are local ponies employed by your family to gather grapes, and others are a few cousins who stubbornly do it themselves to "pick them properly", whatever THAT means.

                                            >"We've lived in these parts for hundreds of years.  My mother made wine.  My grandmother made wine.  My great-grandmother made wine as well."

                                            >Your mother sits on her rump and taps her forehooves together with each listing of relatives.

                                            >"And my great-great-grandmother as well.  It goes back more than ten generations, a noble line uninterrupted in the art of winery."

                                            >She peers at you, eyes darting all over your body.

                                            >It's as though she's seeing you for the first time.

                                            >"And you're going to throw all that away?"

                                            >She somehow manages to mix 'pleading', 'disdain', and 'disbelief' all into one disapproving hiss.

                                            >Your mother gets back to her hooves and marches over to you, a deep frown on her wrinkled face.

                                            >"Wine is in your blood, filly.  Get rid of those damn books and go find your papa - he'll be out mashing grapes.  Maybe a few hours of that will remind you of where you came from."

                                            >Your mother turns her back and begins to walk away, having decided that the discussion was over and that her meek daughter would fall in line again.

                                            >Just like she's been doing her entire life.

                                            >Until now.

                                            "No."

                                            >The word came out more quiet than you had intended, and it sounded quite breathy.

                                            >But it carried weight with it, and your utterance filled the corners of the room.

                                            >Your mother freezes in her tracks.

                                            >She stops walking so quickly and so suddenly that you hear her hooves clack on the stone floor of your dining room.

                                            >The room is silent, save for the pounding of your heart in your ears.

                                            >"...what did you say to me?"

                                            >You're surprised your mother can't hear your heart beating against your ribs as she slowly turns around to face you.

                                            >It's all you can hear; surely the sound is deafening to her as well.

                                            >She looks surprised as she turns around - you think you BOTH are.

                                            >You hadn't planned to say 'no'.

                                            >You hadn't planned to stand up to her.

                                            >You had hoped that your mother would somehow not discover your textbooks, and that you could slip away some vague and undetermined times in the future without confrontation.

                                            >You'd never verbalized your desire to do something other than wine-making, before.

                                            >You wanted more in life than some shack on a hill in Itaily.

                                            >You wanted to help ponies.

                                            >You wanted to make a difference!

                                            >You love your family and you love your rich history, but...

                                            >...you love your passion even more.

                                            "I said," you utter after you take a deep breath, voice cracking only a little bit, "No.  I'm not going to work in the winery, mama.  That's not what I want to do with my life."

                                            >Your mother stands there, unmoving.

                                            >Glaring.

                                            >Her face scrunching up into an unrecognizable monster's face as she grows angrier than you've ever seen her.

                                            >You're about to have a long discussion, and you get the feeling it's not going to end well for either of you.

                                            ---

                                            >You are Brandywine Bordeaux, and things could have gone better.

                                            >You have only a few things with you: a saddlebag, the bits you've saved up over the years, and your medical textbooks; all tucked away in the saddlebag pockets.

                                            >It's now the evening, and you're wandering the streets of your former home.

                                            >Your mother made it clear to you: either you continued your family's work, or you...

                                            >Your eyes sting and your breath hitches at the remembrance.

                                            >The hurt still feels so fresh; despite all this, she was still your mama.

                                            >She gave you an ultimatum: stay with them, or leave and never darken their doorstep again.

                                            >You stood up to yourself for what felt like the first time ever, and you didn't give in.

                                            >If your younger brother were still alive, you think he'd be proud of you.

                                            >But he's not.

                                            >He got sick, and he passed away with his hooves cupped in your own.

                                            >You had never felt more powerless in your entire life, and you had desperately wanted to do something - ANYTHING - to help make him better.

                                            >But you couldn't.

                                            >You could only sit there and watch.

                                            >But maybe, now you can.

                                            >You know you want to help ponies, and you can't do that when you're stomping on grapes and taste-testing wine.

                                            >To make a long story short, she disowned you.

                                            >You're not a Bordeaux anymore, and the name "Brandywine" leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

                                            >Like a bad batch of wine that a street-peddler is trying to pass off as top-shelf.

                                            >You need a new name.

                                            >A name to match your new destiny.

                                            >The name of a pony who's going to learn how to help other ponies.

                                            >A nurse, or maybe a doctor.

                                            >You don't care, as long as you're doing something to make the world a better place; even if it's just for one pony.

                                            >This is your passion.

                                            >Your fire.

                                            >Your heart's desire!

                                            >They may have your blood and your name, but you'll always have your heart.

                                            >And you'll be damned if you're going to stop being brave just because you finished standing up to your old mare.

                                            >You need a new name.

                                            >Something that's you.

                                            >Something...

                                            "Hmmm..."

                                            >Heart...

                                            >Bravery...

                                            >Confidence...

                                            >Passion...

                                            "Braveheart," you announce, a powerful feeling blooming in your chest like an inflating balloon, "I am Braveheart!"

                                            >Your rump warms and glows, lighting up the dark alcove you're standing in.

                                            >You adjust the medical textbooks in your saddlebag so that you can crane your neck around easier.

                                            "O-Oh, my Celestia!"

                                            >Staining the cream-coloured fur of your rump like spilled red wine, a cutie mark.

                                            >It's a dark red cross-sign; burgundy in colour, if you had to place the shade of red.

                                            >A medical cross, specifically.

                                            >You feel any fleeting nervousness and uncertainty become smothered by your new confidence.

                                            >You're meant to be a nurse; destiny has decided your new identity.

                                            "Nurse Braveheart, huh?"

                                            >You like the sound of that.