> The First Second of Eternity
>  by Sledge115
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> I ~ The Lonely Eye
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


I



The Lonely Eye





At first, there was nothing to see. Only Mother, and her measured, regal voice seeping past her clouded thoughts. It was calm, soothing, and warm against the icy chill that blew against their sanctuary.

And it was everything she needed.

“You are Galatea,” Mother spoke to her. “Scribe of the Stardust.”

“I am Galatea,” came her reply. “Scribe of the Stardust.”

“You are the guardian of memory,” she was told, and repeated as Mother spoke. “As the world turns, you shall stand firm. As the land grows, you shall care for it. You shall watch, you shall learn, and you shall protect.”

She was both asleep and wasn't, and try as she might, she could not open her eyes, and behold Mother nor address her directly. And Mother was so, so very tired.

“Good night, my little ones,” she heard her whisper. “When you awaken, the world will await you, and you in turn shall make it better. Now, rest well. Dream of sweet things to come. And most of all, be brave.”

So she did, falling into a dreamless sleep, waiting for her time, need it take an eternity.


* * * * *


Time welcomed her awakening.

There wasn’t much to be said of the world that greeted her, when she took her first shaky steps into the wilderness outside the cave that was her sanctuary.

She stood upon the cliff’s edge, in the heart of a mountain range. As far as her eyes could see, snowcapped peaks welcomed her penetrating gaze, and beyond their peaks lay a world to explore. How she knew this, she did not know. But the knowledge was given to her, and use the library within her mind she would.

She looked down upon her forehooves, and raised one of them, examining it. The wind blew soft, tantalisingly raising the pale grey furs of her coat.

Then she looked back at the cavern that had housed her, but found no opening to greet her back.

With nothing left to do, Galatea set her gaze upon the mountains before her, and took flight.

And she flew very far, indeed.


* * * * *


She did not know how long she was in the air, letting the wind guide her over the expanse. But what she did know, of course, was that she had to land, one way or another.

So she did, choosing a small clearing in a faraway forest, with a pond so clear that it reflected the clear blue skies above. There, Galatea sat, ruffled her wings, and looked into the pond.

In the tranquil water of the pond, she saw a mare look back at her. A slender, spiralling horn rested upon her forehead. A great, majestic pair of wings upon her barrel. And an ethereal, ink-black mane that flowed, even this far down on the ground, in the absence of wind. All that she was familiar with, and knew already. 

It was her eyes that caught her attention, resting within a thin, elegant face. For their icy blue was the only bright colour to grace her form, and their gaze, penetrating and contemplative.

Once she had familiarised herself with all that she did not know of herself, Galatea turned away from the pond, and sat a fair distance away, looking into the forest.

The trees here grew close to one another, so crowded that their vibrant, green leaves blended into one. Her eyes could not see very far into the forest, for outside the clearing, the sunlight barely penetrated into the undergrowth. 

But what she couldn’t see, she heard. And while she did not hear very much, her senses told her enough for her mind to wonder. The rustle of dried leaves, from the steps and claws of unseen creatures scampering around the forest floor, and the gentle whistling of the winds. All in the cool touch of the morning air.

Life, as it were. And somewhere, deep down, Galatea knew that she did not belong, a strange being in a stranger land.

She looked back at her flank, where her soul’s mark lay as it had been granted to her. A simple grey eye, darker in its shading than her coat.

Looking back into the forest, she took a breath, and recited the only words Mother ever told her.

“I am Galatea,” she began. “Scribe of the Stardust.”

The forest, in response, said nothing. She cleared her throat.

“I am the guardian of memory,” she said, as Mother taught her. “As the world turns, I shall stand firm. As the land grows, I shall care for it. I shall watch, I shall learn, and I shall protect.”

She stood up, and took a deep breath.

Within her, she knew, Mother had gifted her with the ability to wield the magical crafts – through her horn, which shone a bright grey as she experimentally lifted a few scattered rocks within this clearing; through her wings, with which she cast a calming breeze that joined the rustling of the leaves; and finally, through her own hooves, thanks to which she sensed the life thrive beneath the soil and all around her.

For now, she thought she would rather stay on her hooves. Satisfied, and with renewed purpose, Galatea walked forward, and entered the forest.


* * * * *


Time passed, and she remained.

The forest was dark and treacherous. She tripped and stumbled several times over. The rivers that coursed beneath the canopy were winding and rough, their waters crashing into rocks and casting silt upon the banks. Trees grew from tiny saplings into tall, twisted things with many names that Galatea did not know, for the plants did not speak to her. Yet they bit at her when she bit into their fruit. And though this did not impede her so, she lamented it.

She was alone, and the forest did not welcome her. She beheld the creatures of many forms which shied away when she called out to them, and followed her when her back was turned, stalking her in the dark.

This she concluded. At first.

But with the passage of time, she came to see the world differently. For the forest was bright and full of life, too. Where in the one corner a river might be cruel and dangerous, in the other it would be a calm, flowing stream, leading into many a tranquil pond, much like the one that had greeted her.

And Galatea learned to appreciate the Sun above. Wherever it shone, life thrived all around its warm touch.

She watched as flowers bloomed, and little buzzing bees flew back and forth between them and their hives. And where the bees went, life thrived further still. Galatea fed upon the fruits that had sprouted from these same flowers. Some accepted her bite, and she in turn welcomed their ripe, luscious taste.

She could not judge a forest by any one tree, but as its whole. This she concluded. And so she went on, past the forest, and into the plains.


* * * * *


Where the forest was endarkened and enclosed, the great plains upon which Galatea now walked were exposed and expansive. A sea of grass greeted her from one horizon to the next. Sometimes the grass grew tiny, and she had to lean down and squint, just to examine an individual blade. Other times the grass grew taller than even she, burnt yellow by the Sun, and in these large patches, she had to fly above to see where she went.

Yet the plains, though they stretched as far as the eye could see, were not endless. This she concluded.

In a day, she flew, flew, all the way, until she reached the edge, where the plains gently ajoined the mountains that rose to grace the skies.

Now, having found the boundaries, Galatea flew back to where the plains met the forests. She did this several times over, until her wings grew tired, and she longed for the touch of grass upon her hooves.

Where the forest had been dark, broken only by a cycle as patches of sunlight broke through, the plains were clear by day, yet looked out into empty horizons, or cast into shadow at night, lit by the glow of stars. Day and night, it was as if only the ground beneath her hooves and the grass that brushed against her body were real. Until the seasons changed and the grass died, and the plains became covered by a blanket of snow.

But she was never truly alone. Sun and Moon guided her path through the fields, and never did she become lost in their grasp.

And though she spent many seasons in the plains, watching and observing as life too flourished here in the burrows and the patches great and small, Galatea knew that when needed, she would be free to leave. This she concluded.

When the time came, Galatea left, travelling between the plains, the forests, the mountains and the rivers, and many more, with the Sun and Moon above accompanying her.


* * * * *


Change, Galatea surmised, was paradoxically the one constant in the world she trod. How could it not be, when her eyes spied it in every corner of this world.

She had flown and walked, so very far and very close and everything in-between, and traversed it all, watching the sights change all around her.

Forests, evergreen or broad-leafed, cold ice plains and warm savannahs, rocky mountains and raging rivers. The desolate badlands and the shimmering seas. Fields on different lands, blanketed in alternance beneath blossoming flowers, falling leaves and new snow.  Nothing remained as it was, nothing was forever a desolate, barren land. Not even when she trudged the permafrost-covered terrains to the North, or the scorching sands of vast deserts to the South.

All of them cast beneath the ever-cycling Sun and Moon.

These were not all pleasant experiences for her hooves or wings or even her mind, that was true. Her hooves would grow chapped and cracked when she walked for too long across the harshness of mountain and desert. Her wings would grow tired and ragged from the challenge of flying against those storms that raged over oceans. And her mind became weary and spent whenever she was awake for too long. But these were things as they were, and she accepted it.

For it was her duty. This she did not conclude. She knew.

And if she was to rest, beneath the shade or anywhere she saw fit, over time her hooves would return to their original state, her wings would turn sleek once more, and her mind be blessed with clarity.

The environment was not the only fragment of this world to capture Galatea’s notice. Where she walked and flew, she took her time to regard the very life that resided, all around her. Their change fascinated her the most.


* * * * *


It had all started with a little bird in a northern forest, where the ground was often cold.

She first noticed it when it cried for its mother, in a nest up there in a great pine tree. Discretely, Galatea spread her wings and flew up there, and watched from a safe distance. It was one of many in its mother’s clutch – small, grey, and rowdy in their chirps. Nothing set this one apart from its siblings, in particular.

That did not matter. It was one chick, and one she chose to watch. She watched for some time.

Its mother brought it food at first, for it was helpless without her, with its weak wings and beak. And like its siblings, it wanted their mother’s attention all for its own.

But eventually, it grew, and grew, and soon the time came for it to leave the nest, many days later. And so Galatea followed it, carefully, as it flew for the first time, and flew, and kept flying away from its mother’s nest.

Many Moons passed by. The fledgling chick was now an adult, its downy feathers molted and revealing a yellow-feathered belly, and a white cheek. It hunted and fed throughout the forest, unaware or uncaring of the mare that watched it so closely. It flew, it slept, and it continued on its path, which Galatea knew not.

Then came another of its kind, and new hatchlings followed. They did not interest Galatea as much as their parent did. She did not avert her gaze, nor change her path. She wanted to see – no, she needed to see.

So it went on with its life, with another brood to call its own. Life goes on, and that is good, Galatea concluded.

Until, one day, she could not see where it went from her sight. Made curious, she searched every nook and cranny, overturning stones, until she found it on the forest floor, unmoving. And it was not asleep, for as Galatea watched, change came over it, and soon it was naught but feathers and bones and rotting flesh.

And so it passed, and Galatea went on her way.


* * * * *


The little bird was never the first, nor would it be the last.

There were many others like it, though not all flew like it did, nor had beaks, nor were anything close to a bird after all. Some laid eggs, others gave birth. Some ate the vegetation of the forest, the plains, even the odd desert plants or the moss of the tundra. Yet some relied on consuming others’ flesh for sustenance.

They all changed, one way or the other. Their life went on, from the birds in the sky to the lizards crawling on the ground, and crocodiles of the swamps with their hardy scales, to the great elephants of the savannah and tiny mice scampering in their burrows, the whales and the fish that  swam in the oceans – with her keen eyes, Galatea saw deep as she glided above the surface – or the foxes and hyenas and wolves, even little snails and bees, and so, so many more. 

She remembered them all, well enough, and not once did the changing seasons cause her memory to fade, and though she could recite the pattern each of them were to follow in life, it never bored her to follow one little newborn from life to dust, many times over, whether they were hatched or born.

Not even the trees were everlasting. She watched, as pinecones and seeds were scattered throughout the land, sprouting little saplings wherever they fell. They grew like any other lifeform would, though they were at the mercy of the natural order, swaying in the wind, burning in forest fires and other such misfortunes. Yet their seeds blew in the wind, or spread far and wide by civets or birds feeding upon their ripe offerings.

She watched there, a little sapling, grown from a seed that must have come down from the North by a travelling bird. It grew, like the little bird would, small and in the shadows of its older brethren, reaching out slowly yet surely towards the blessing of the Sun. Soon, it too joined the others, tall and proud, sprouting little flowers that drew the attention of the busy bees and beautiful butterflies that dwelled in the forest. And so did the songbirds come, picking up the ripe red fruits it sprouted, and spreading it further out this deciduous forest.

Here, Galatea took her time, watching the little critters that lived around its mighty trunk, unaware or uncaring of the lonely eye that watched them so closely.

Three of them she became fond of, whenever she went, and she could not decide which one of them she preferred to watch, for they are all equal in her eyes.

First were the earthworms, tiny, slithering creatures that dwelled beneath the soil she lived on. They were elusive, only emerging when the ground was wet after a downpour. And that was why Galatea sought them whenever she could. She could never see their tunnels beneath, yet she could see what they had blessed the forest with, for the ground turned more fertile and lush with life after the soil was tilled.

Then, there were the little snails. Small, out of the way, and very slow. Rarely did any other creature notice them, only the birds that fed upon them. But many a time did Galatea stop to watch their simple life, carrying their homes, unable to affect the world around them much. Perhaps it was their slowness that endeared them so to her. She did wonder aloud, once, just what they wished to do with their slow, slimy lives of dwelling amongst the fallen fruit from their sanctuary and ravishing the taste with their rough tongues – they did not answer, for they were snails, and they did not speak very well. So she watched them move, slowly, as always.

At last, there were the bees, everpresent, but always welcome whenever she spied the little humming insects. Wherever they went, flowers and plant life would follow. She wondered if they knew what gifts they had brought upon the world. But the bees did not seem to care, and they went on with their lives as their roles demanded it of them, for the good of their hives. And though bears would come and swipe at their honeycombs, time after time, they always returned to their colonies to rebuild. Galatea would watch them the longest, with the passing seasons, and the changing times.

And as it would, change did come, as it should. For like all of the life that it sheltered, the tree grew old and cracked and splintered, until it fell quietly one day, tumbling to the ground in a heap of decayed wood.

A tree was enduring. But still it was at the mercy of change, as it lay there, disintegrated and eaten away by the fungi that spread across the wood.

Such is the fate of all life, indeed. And Galatea went on her way, with a small frown. 


* * * * *


Many things Galatea had concluded, from observing the little bird to the elderly apple tree, yet it all came back to one thing. Life, in all its shapes and forms, was not and never had been eternal. It changed, always, no matter how long any one lifeform may last. It grew, it moved, it fought and bled and fell, and passed like the Sun and Moon’s movements across the sky. And it remained at the mercy of the world they resided in.

But there were none like her.

She had eschewed food, for some time, waiting to see change. And though she starved, and suffered from thirst, many times over, she did not perish, and regained her luster and spirit whenever she slept for a night.

Of course, she did not try to cast herself off a cliff. To deliberately end herself would be foolish, entirely against what Mother wanted or expected from her. But many an accident did befall her, from lightning storm to volcanic eruption, to even tripping  down a crevasse or a gorges. And always, always did she emerge from it unscathed, whether it by the beat of her wings, the will of her thought, or by the strength of her hooves.

It was then, after she had travelled for some time, right there at a meadow in the East, where the spring flowers bloomed and birds sang among the branches, that Galatea sat to think. Not of the world she dwelled upon, and had been tasked to watch. But of herself. It was so, so strange to think of herself.

So it was that she spoke to herself, the words Mother had taught her.

“I am Galatea,” she said. “Scribe of the Stardust.”

No reply came, neither from the gentle breeze nor from her thoughts. She continued.

“I am the guardian of memory. As the world turns, I shall stand firm. As the land grows, I shall care for it. I shall watch, I shall learn, and I shall protect.”

She had recited it many Moons ago, and it gave her comfort. But now, alone in this world of hers, with only her thoughts for company and not another soul, the words felt loose and distant both.

After a moment’s hesitation, she asked herself a question, in a whisper so soft it may have been the whisper of the wind.

“... Who am I?”



> II ~ The Nameless Mountain
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


II



The Nameless Mountain





The next thought that passed Galatea’s mind was that it was a preposterous question. She knew who she was. That is why she was here, once was there, and would be, for eons to come. The thought to follow after that was to reflect upon it, just for a moment. But a moment could be a very long moment, and she knew not how long she’d been thinking for.

She looked up, and the Sun was still where it was. That was good, she presumed. She had not dwelt on this very long.

She was Galatea, Scribe of the Stardust. Her duty was to watch, learn, and protect. And that was it, she presumed, nothing more. And she has watched and learned what she could from this world. Nothing did slip from her mind, for she was rational, and her memory eternal. She remembered every moment of her life, all that she had observed, and each of the creatures she had observed.

Perhaps, then, the answer lay in the question itself. That is to say, perhaps she ought to change the question into something more palatable. So she sat up straighter, and cleared her throat.

“Where am I?”

Better. And then she recalled it easily. She was in the Far East, where pleasantly shaded, light pink flowers bloomed in Spring, and water trailed down from the mountains, from where every little drop collected into lush, hot springs.

The hesitation passed. Her confidence returned. And as it should, her duty continued.

Yet even as she braced herself to take flight, a moment’s doubt caught on to her anew. The very first question she’d asked was not truly answered.

Perhaps, she mused, she ought to ask it again sometime. And so, she was off, flying West, onward to familiar ground.


* * * * *


Many, many Moons passed, before Galatea discovered one gift of hers that Mother had not told.

She had flown, across oceans, as she usually did, when a storm loomed on the horizon, and she took the time to land, and to cross the barren, volcanic lands. She winced upon landing, feeling the rocky terrain beneath her hooves. Her sweat dripped and evaporated in the fiery air. And her thirst persisted, as she went on her way.

But she was not alone. She heard a terrific roar, and hid behind a volcanic rock, listening to the crashes and roars continue unabated. There, she poked her head out, to gaze in apprehension across the barren, ashen landscape, and saw the monstrosities.
 
They were large, scaly, and their breath was like fire. Each of them burned upon the other. One was red, the other an ashen grey. Mighty wings sprouted from their backs, and both their feet ended in large, sharp claws. Their snouts were long, much like a crocodile’s, though narrow and arrow-like as a snake’s. Their golden eyes glowered with hatred and malice, as they tore at one another with their snapping jaws.

Galatea waited, watching their altercation for some time, while each kept tearing not only into the other, but the land as well, rendering it racked and scorched.

At last, one of the creatures fell in a heap, growling, but its sounds were quieted by a claw pressed against its neck.

Then the victor, the dark red of the two, spoke, in a low and terrible voice.

“Leave, for I have claimed this land,” the creature snarled, “and if you ever return here, I shall have your head.”

The victor bared its teeth, and the loser scuttled away.

And this was Mother’s Gift, she realised – Galatea knew right then, that she would listen and understand the languages of many. What she understood now was to turn and walk away, without the creatures knowing.

She flew, and did not stop for a long time.


* * * * *


The great dragons, she later learned,  were not the only races. And neither were they the only ones capable of speech, for there were many, many more. 

But there were none like her, and it troubled her so.

Not the griffons, creatures of the air, with great wings, cruel beaks and the body of lions. Nor the Reindeer, elusive and mysterious, those that trod the air. Minotaurs and Diamond Dogs, shapeshifting Changelings and secretive Kirin. All the races that created holdings of their own, grouped together into clans or villages or even cities. 

Yet none of them were eternal. None were unchanging. They lived, fought, bled and died, fighting for land and other such petty needs. They did not see the bigger picture. None ever had. They fought for land, for wealth, for glory, or to defend their ownings from those who would rob them. 

None took the time to look upon their land they lived on, and appreciate it. None took a pause to contemplate their world and build upon it. All was to be built, and torn asunder eventually, when the fires of war came to their homes, to a chorus of the cheers and battlecries of raiders and pillagers. Many times did Galatea see blood shed, of the adults and children alike, when they could not stand. And those who did stand, so often did they find themselves pressed into labour, toiling away at the fields until their bodies withered away.

So Galatea did not try approaching them, and she watched, and watched, as the lands were torn in battle, from the griffon lords in their marching hordes to towering Minotaur chieftains, battling for supremacy throughout the lands.

Only the Reindeer shied away, yet even they did not come to help, preferring to remain in their forested domains, turning a blind eye to take care of their own.

And there were things that stirred in the dark. Hydras and chimeras, manticores and serpents of the seas. Nameless things that gnawed upon the world beneath which they dwelt. Terrible creations from a bygone era, older than even she.

After a time, Galatea turned away, and she did not want to think much of the world.

Duty commanded her otherwise, nevertheless, and even as she approached the forest she called home so often, it lingered in her mind.


* * * * *


“I am tired,” Galatea declared one day, and almost as soon as it had left her lips, she regretted it, for she had not minded it nor thought of it so strongly before. But the days and nights had grown lengthier in her mind – and sooner or later, time would become her prison, where once it had kept her company.

She paused, stopping in her trek. Now she was near a forested mountain, and in its shade did she find some respite, sitting down upon a rock. A dark thought passed her then.

Was it not already her burden, to be dictated by time?

She did not even know how many cycles had passed since she’d left that cave where she’d opened her eyes. She did not know how many little birds had hatched, grown old, and perished. She did not know how many trees had been planted, grown, and fallen apart. All she knew was that she was tired, very tired.

Galatea laid down upon the grass, pawing at the ground impatiently. This was not expected of her, whatever expectations she held for herself. She should not be waiting for so long. She had places to see. They needed her presence, after all.

‘And yet,’ she thought, still pawing at the ground, ‘what more is there to see, truly? Death, either made deliberate or left natural, suffering from all walks of life…’

The little voice in her mind that was not hers told her to shake it off. That it was her duty. Which it was, of course. None questioned it. So, perhaps, she should not question it so thoroughly… Yet… 

‘So many little birds, fallen upon the fields, old and young and in-between,’ she thought morosely. ‘On and on the story goes…’

And time… Time was the eternal question. How long, she questioned, has she been doing this? How many decades, how many centuries… How many millennia had passed, from when she had stepped out of the cave that sheltered her. How many more little birds and drakes and griffs would perish and fade into dust, with the passing of time, whose fate she would have to bear witness to, with few words ever spoken.

Galatea gritted her teeth. It was unbecoming of her, she told herself. That’s what she told herself, over and over again. But try as she would, she questioned it – how much longer she had to go? It had never been her duty to keep track of time. Now, however, she wished it had been.

She looked up in time to see a little bird, its beak sharp and plumes black, with a red crest, fly past, and land upon the patch of grass before her eyes.

The little bird did not mind, nor seem to notice her presence. From Galatea’s observations from the years past, this was not a native bird. No, this one and all its ilk were of the sort to migrate, twice a year, North to South. And now it came to rest at the mountain, as it usually does.

It rested there, preening its wings, without another care. And Galatea didn’t like that very much.

“What do you want?” she hissed, fixing a hard glare upon the bird. “Have you come to mock mine presence?”

It did not notice her, like many others. It tended to itself, uncaring of the seething, frustrated watcher nearby.

“Fly, little bird,” Galatea at last spoke somberly. “That is what you, and your kind do, isn’t it? Fly freely, to wherever you so desire. Leave me.”

It did not, much to her disappointment. It chirped, and chirped, calling for a mate of its own. And even as her frustration mounted, Galatea could not avert her eyes, for duty called upon her, just like it always did.

How she wished that she too could fly, truly fly away, by her own will not bound by whatever greater purpose lay ahead of her.

It hadn’t taken long for the bird, now quiet, to hop closer to the rocky side of the mountain. And, even as Galatea approached it, gently, the little bird began to peck. Not upon the nearby trees, no. It tapped its beak upon the rocky outcrop, on, and on, in a rhythmic cycle.

Galatea sat there, watching the bird, and her tail flicked back and forth from left to right. The bird’s pecks chipped away at the rock, little by little, letting tiny cracks form, and grain-sized pieces of it to fall away.

A rock was not eternal, Galatea knew that. Much as she’d have liked to compare herself to the unmoving, unyielding rock, the latter was still at the mercy of the elements. More enduring than plenty, but at the mercy nonetheless.

Evidently, even this primordial stone could not withstand the bird’s routine, small as it was.

And when it finished, leaving hardly a trace of its beak upon the rock but tiny, grain-sized debris, Galatea nodded in understanding. The bird’s beak had been sharpened, if by a little. And the rock, made ever so infinitessimaly slighter, too.

Galatea looked up upon it, seeing the mountain’s peak touch the sky, and she returned her gaze to the little bird. It looked at her, yellow eyes wide and curious. Galatea raised an eyebrow, and cleared her throat.

“Tell me, little bird,” she asked gently this time. “How long will it take, for this mountain to be ground to dust?”

The bird said nothing, and soon it spread its wings, and flew off to where it was needed. But it did not matter, nor did it bother Galatea much. It told her enough.

And now she knew what to do.


* * * * *


It had begun simply enough, as all struggles do.

First, she had walked, across to the other side of the nameless mountain. Four thousand paces across, she counted. Then up the mountain she went. This she was less certain of, that was true. Another four thousand paces, she estimated, and that was good enough.

She returned to her spot, where the bird had left her alone, and set to work. She started off, naturally, by pulling a hoof back, and striking the rocky outcrop.

Upon impact, the immediate surface promptly crumbled into a powdery dust. Galatea paused before thinking to strike once more. 

‘That won’t do,’ she thought. Too hasty, and the whole mountain would be dust, blown away in the wind.

So the next time she struck, in the outcrop next to it, she was gentler. This time, the stone cracked – but held its form. And through the tiny cloud of dust that blew upon her face, Galatea felt a tiny smile tug at her lips.

Galatea struck it, again, and again. Each strike was weaker than the last, until she felt the right pace. But she did not mind. The mountain would be dust in many thousands of years, or further beyond. She did not know this, for it was not her duty.

But she would carry on, need it take an eternity.


* * * * *


Little by little, with each chip off the mountain, Galatea’s duty continued. She did not know when it would end. Only with the mountain’s end would she consider her task finished. 

She switched hooves often. Left, or right, whichever suited her preference at the moment. They served her well. Sometimes she’d turn around, too, and a tiny part of her wanted to burst out laughing, when she chipped off larger parts with her kicks.

And this did bring her comfort.

The creatures that came from the North, beyond the frozen shores, did not, by much. How could they, truly, when they were so alike her, and yet so distant still in body and mind.

Ponies were their name, from what little she could hear from their language, hooved creatures of many colours, grazers harmonious with the land on which they trod and lived. And they were as diverse as they could be, with three tribes.

First among the three, for they flew where others walked, were the pegasi, as they called themselves. They reached far and wide, establishing fortress cities up among the clouds, far and beyond the reach of the other tribes. And through the beats of their mighty wings, they proudly defended their homes, casting the weather as needed.

Next came the unicorns, and through their horns they channeled the magical forces around them to an extent far greater than any of the three, as they willed it. In their ivory towers, they looked down upon the other two, for their control was certain, and they needed no other company but their books and their arts.

The last were the earthponies, with no wings nor horns to call their own. Strong, hardy, yet also gentle with the life that thrived within the soil, they drew the least attention from the other two, toiling away in their fields and villages. But it was their food the pegasi and unicorns depended upon, and this was the begrudging truth the other tribes knew not to question.

Each had their duties, that was true. The unicorns closely safeguarded their knowledge. The pegasi watched over the land from high above. And the earthponies built their homes, and fed the people. 

Here, Galatea at last saw herself. Beings that nurtured and shaped the land, and guided their lives with their own will. She was all three, by her horn and wings, and the gentle touch of her hooves upon the land.

And yet they were not like her, after all. They passed on as time went by, like all things. And the more she noticed, the more Galatea knew that they were much like any other people, for they bickered and argued – and fought, though they were kin to one another, and to herself.

With each burning field, and fallen soul, and petty argument, they drifted further apart from the tasks bestowed upon them by their gifts. To squander a gift, Galatea thought, was a crime.

After a time, Galatea returned to the mountain.


* * * * *


Many thoughts passed Galatea’s head then, when she arrived at her spot. Plenty of them vague. Others, she was more certain of.

She was not like these people, in certain areas. Where they bled, she did not. Where they starved, she could not. But appearances could be deceiving. And she knew just enough that she looked much like them.

Galatea looked down upon her hooves, then her sides, circling in her spot. And when she was done, the decision had been made.

It was yet another gift from Mother, for her to have been blessed with the knowledge of the magical arts. Rudimentary, true, but this sufficed. Enough to know of this spell.

Her horn glowed a pale grey, like her mark, and she was enveloped by the aura. And a change did come over her, rare as it was. Her ethereal, flowing mane and tail fell inert, her dull, pale grey coat turned lighter, and her stature was reduced, to a third of her height.

The unicorns wielded the magical forces, like she did, casting spells with their horns, and keeping records. The pegasi flew far and wide much as she preferred, protecting the land and watching over it.

But few would notice an earthpony.

And now she looked like any other farmer or worker. Few ever took notice of those that built the foundations, those who worked the fields and put up dwellings.

It would suit her needs just fine. 

Galatea looked down upon herself once more. Smaller in stature, with neither horn nor wings. Yet her soul’s mark remained. Her mane hung limp, its once-shimmering black now faded. But then she raised her hoof, and saw that it was still chipped and worn.

She smiled at the sight. Another reminder of the duty she carried, the tasks she must undertake.

The troubles and strife that engulfed her kin did not trouble her that much, she mused, as she reared to strike the outcrop once more, with all the strength of an earthpony. Whatever they did, it was her duty to watch. And what else could she do but follow Mother’s orders and guidance.

She struck the outcrop. Her duty would take longer from hereon, for an earthpony’s strength was lesser than hers.

But she had time, Galatea knew. All the time she’d ever need.


* * * * *


The years passed, and Galatea’s duty continued, with each sight she kept in her mind, and each strike of her hoof upon the outcrop.

The spot she had chosen changed over the years, naturally. A nook was beginning to form. And that was good. Time had passed, and it again gave Galatea comfort to know it continued to do so. Here, with her disguise, she could change, too.

She would starve, often, forcing her to forage further. She could walk among her kin, though she preferred to observe from a safe distance. And when needed, she would regenerate, reverting back to her true form to heal any ailments.

Yet, Galatea found new comfort, through her little pony-form. She lived, when she previously could not. Where she once was numb in feeling, she no longer was. Every sensation, every sting, every touch of the grass upon her hooves and running water through her coat, she felt that much more vividly.

Her duty continued. But so did life, and Galatea found that good, truly good, for she understood. Timeless she may be, but there was a new vigor to her.

Then, change came yet again to the land. Where the seasons once held balance between the four, one season did grow and last longer by every passing year. And when Winter’s hold upon the land grew, the balance was upset. And the land suffered for it.

It had begun with the snow, piling high and thick each passing Winter. Then the ground began to freeze over, beneath Galatea’s hooves.

Saplings froze beneath the hard soil. Eggs no longer hatched, nor did little birds come down to settle. And the snails froze and perished in their shells, for even their hibernation could not outlast Winter’s wrath.

So cold it was indeed, that Galatea could no longer assume her little form, to her great pain. And even in her true skin did she feel the bite of the cold. Each Winter, longer than the last. 

But with gritted teeth, she pressed on. Even when temptation grew to turn away from the land, to wander to where dragons dwelled and griffons fought, she remained, roaming, and watching.

And still her kin bickered amongst themselves, led astray by the leaders they had trusted. Blame fell upon the earthponies, for withholding food. The unicorns, for shunning the others and withholding their arts. Pegasi, for their effort or lack thereof in ending the harsh Winter.

Disappointment was a familiar feeling, but it did not change its unwelcome nature.

“How much longer must I do this, Mother?” Galatea asked aloud, above the howling winds.

No answer came, nor would it ever. She looked down at the spot of mountain she had struck so many times before. Where it was once a flat surface, it was now a large nook, large enough for her to rest within, protected from the elements.

“I shall continue, until this mountain is dust,” she pledged, “however long it may take.”

The wind did not answer.

With a heavy heart, Galatea carried on, chipping away at the nameless mountain, for ponykind’s strife continued, even as the snow fell. And when she was tired at last, her hooves cracked and her breathing heavy, she laid down to a long sleep, with scant hope of Winter’s end.

What more could she do, truly?


* * * * *


One day, it did pass.

Galatea did not know when it did, precisely. But as she trod upon the land, having awakened from her hibernation, she knew well enough from what she saw and felt.

For the snowfall had grown lighter, the permafrost receded, and glaciers retreated. And the Spring that followed was far more pleasant than ever before.

To see the seasons restored to their previous balance brought some measure of satisfaction for Galatea. For the birds came back to roost, returning from their travel, and flowers bloomed and thrived in this land of hers, as far as her gaze could see.

So it was, once she had looked around, just enough, that Galatea again retired to her little nook at the nameless mountain, to mark the day as usual. Once, twice, thrice did she strike at the rock. On, and on she went.

Galatea did not know how many strikes she had done for the day, when she heard the rustle and crunch of dried leaves behind her.

So she turned around, and met the eyes of a pony. 


* * * * *


Silence fell. So sudden was the newcomer’s presence indeed, that Galatea paused in her strike, her hoof awkwardly hanging over the nook, and she did not wish to move a single muscle, nor to let herself breathe.

Galatea tilted her head, and raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down. He was a stallion, she could tell from his build. His fur and mane were a welcoming light brown. His mane and tail were braided, in a style rather longer than his ilk’s, if her memories served her correctly. He wore little, only a thick jerkin and a bag that hung over his sides. On his flanks lay the mark of a red autumn leaf.

She contemplated his eyes. They were a warm amber.

The silence was broken by the stallion.

“Ah, um… greetings!" he said, cheerfully. Galatea blinked. “I... could not help but notice you here, fair maiden.”

Another pause. Slowly, steadily, Galatea lowered her hoof, and turned around to face him fully. His eyes darted down, before returning to meet her gaze.

"Greetings," Galatea replied, her voice a little shaky. The Gift she’d been blessed here had long permitted her to understand his tongue. But it did not make speaking it any easier. “No one has called me anything before.”

The stallion laughed, and Galatea tilted her head.

“Is something funny to you?” she asked. The stallion, most curiously to her, shook his head. Perhaps he was lying, and she found that certainly off-putting.

"I apologize, but my party and I have reached this mountain, seeking sanctuary,” he stated politely. He pointed to the pathway that lead into the forest. “So, we have made one. It isn’t that far from here and… I suppose I heard you… working, aye. Do you reside here?"

“I reside nowhere and everywhere.”

The stallion opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. He looked past her, to where her nook was. Galatea followed his gaze, and looked down upon it. The weathered rock hung over the little clearing she had made for herself, with dried leaves and soil as her bedding.

She looked back at him, frowning a little.

“This is not much to see,” she spoke, still stiffly. The stallion blinked, and shook his head. He gave her a smile.

“That’s alright,” he said pleasantly, “but may I ask, what are you doing?”

“I am grinding this mountain into dust,” answered Galatea, and the stallion’s eyes widened. Still, there was no need to lie, after all.

“But…” the stallion began, “that will take an eternity, will it not?"

“Perhaps it will,” said Galatea. That old, resigned feeling crept back into her.

The stallion rubbed his chin, humming.

“An eternity sounds awfully long,” he said plainly.

Galatea raised her eyebrow, and the stallion coughed.

“Come visit our hamlet," he said, that wide, cheerful smile lighting his face. “It is but a short moment's walk from here. And we could use a laborer of your strength and will.”

Galatea contemplated this, briefly. This was not in the plan, she pondered. That she would have to mingle so intimately with ponykind, her charge. But then she looked down at her hooves, which were worn and chipped, and her mind began to wander…

Perhaps this was what it was meant to be. And once the thought came, the decision followed.

“Very well,” she said. “I will come with you.”

“Oh, excellent!” the stallion said brightly. He turned to leave, and beckoned her to join his side. “Come… Ah, my name is Broadleaf Heart. What about yours?”

“Galatea,” came the reply.

Regret followed instantly. She was not to intervene. And here she was, getting herself very much involved in their affairs.

“But you musn’t speak of it to your ilk. Do you understand that?”

She expected him – Broadleaf, Galatea reminded herself – to rebuke her privacy. He merely laughed, softly and not unkindly.

“If you wish,” said Broadleaf, still with that smile of his.  “Come, come. There’s much to do.”

And so she walked with him, side by side, down the winding path.



> III ~ The Hamlet by the Waters
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


III



The Hamlet by the Waters





Galatea knew not what to make of the stallion named Broadleaf. This she concluded, after a moment’s walk into the forest. Perhaps she ought to reconsider, mull over and contemplate, in her ignorance of where his hamlet lay, and him as her only guidance…

No, a look-over would do. It would fill the time. 

He was an earthpony, she had ascertained, much like the guise she had long assumed. His sturdy build and gait told her such. Yet light on his hooves and nimble in his movements. A stallion that had travelled far, and worked hard to found a new homeland. His braid left few strands astray, but this was the only vanity he’d allowed himself.

Broadleaf did not speak along the way, communicating solely through little, stolen glances. Still, Galatea was aware she did the same, whenever she felt her eyes were drawn by a bird flitting through the trees, putting her in the mind of the bird from long ago. She did not mind, either. 

It was only when Galatea’s eyes drifted from his soul’s mark, past the saddlebag still slung over his withers, down towards his belly along with the in-between, that he finally spoke up, amber eyes meeting light blue.

“Pardon me,” he said, voice light and shaky, the fur around his cheeks turning somewhat dark, “but is something the matter?”

They had just hopped over a little stream, remaining close to one another in their strides. Broadleaf appeared to have seconds thought over his words, for right after they left his mouth, he tore his glance away, looking anywhere but at Galatea.

That was curious, indeed. There would be no wolves in the forest, not at this time of year.

“I was inspecting your mark,” said Galatea. That was no lie, as her eyes had moved to his mark. His tail swished as she said so, and he coughed. “What does it tell you?”

“I thought you were staring at… nevermind,” he mumbled, flustered. He averted his gaze. “They are a tracker’s mark, I was told. Or a farmer’s, another would say. Me, I’ve taken it to mean I am to collect lumber, to build and shelter.”

“I see,” said Galatea, nodding solemnly. “A builder’s work is certainly… intriguing”

“You flatter me,” said Broadleaf, offering her a smile, “but I am only a lumberjack, nothing more, nothing less.”

“So you claim,” Galatea replied. “But first, I must see your work.”

Broadleaf bobbed his head. They went onward, their steps careful through the undergrowth, over and under winding roots, clustered rocks and thick bushes. Here and there, though, Galatea noticed as Broadleaf would give her an odd look. Galatea’s eyes drifted to his behind, while he looked elsewhere. How odd, she thought. Nothing was out of sorts. Perhaps her remark earlier had shaken his resolve, or cast doubt into his mind. A fellow of his trade would need to remain healthy, through the changing seasons, day and night.

“If it concerns you so,” said Galatea, in the most sincere tone she could muster, “mine eyes tell me that you are indeed a healthy, virile stallion.”

Broadleaf tripped over a rock.


* * * * *


It hadn’t taken long after that for Galatea and Broadleaf to arrive – and neither had much to say to the other once Broadleaf was hoisted back onto his hooves and dusted off. Now, stepping out of the treeline, Galatea’s eyes fell upon dwellings. Humble dwellings. Small huts lined along a little winding stream, huts made of wood and moss, hastily set up in the short time Broadleaf Heart’s company had been here, surely.

They lacked finesse, far from the unicorn cities or the pegasi fortresses, or even the long-standing earthpony villages Galatea had seen in her travels throughout the land. The closest comparison she could find was to liken it to griffon yurts, oftentimes built overnight as their caravans roamed in the East.

Galatea glanced at her companion, eyebrows raised and unsaid questions dancing on the tip of her tongue. Broadleaf pawed at the ground, the ghost of a rather nervous smile upon his lips.

"This is a small sanctuary," said Galatea at last.

"It is," said Broadleaf. "But we wish to see it grow, large and proud, comfortable and warm."

He pointed towards a particular group of huts and carts, arranged in a half-circle. At the center, before their doors, stood a narrow pillar of stone, as tall as Galatea was, its end tapering off in a blunted tip. It stood a fair distance from the trickling stream, a small wooden bridge laid across the water leading straight towards it.

“That, Mistress Galatea, shall be the heart of this hamlet,” Broadleaf proclaimed. His hoof indicated a clearing, where ponies mingled and carried stones and lumber. Four pillars had been erected on each corner, twice as tall as Galatea stood. "That will be our hall. And we need all the hooves we can get. We don’t know when Winter’s chill shall arrive."

Galatea’s eyes met Broadleaf’s. He looked at her now, gaze panning up and down her form.

"You are strong in body, and in mind, I should think,” spoke Broadleaf. “There are few ponies I know who’d challenge themselves with anything heavier than a boulder and yet, here you are, chipping away at a mountain!”

Galatea opened her mouth to retort, but found nothing. Broadleaf proffered a forehoof.

“Would you help us?” asked Broadleaf, gently. “We shall give warmth and comfort, in return. Nothing more, or less."

Galatea did not answer, immediately. She was reflecting on how she’d got here. She’d summoned enough willpower to deviate back then, subtly, veering from an unending watch to slowly changing a tiny part of the world. Now, at this crossroads, that hesitation tugged at her mind and her hooves, once more.

She stared down at her forehooves. In this guise she’d taken, she saw them to be as chapped as the last time she’d looked. She then turned her gaze back to the earthpony, who still held his hoof proferred. His forehoof, she now saw, bore the same marks – not a mark like the one imprinted on her flank, but those of a sort accumulated over time.

If she had come this far, though, what was one more step?

"I will help you.”


* * * * *


They crossed the stream, one after the other on the wooden bridge. When they arrived at the other end, near the erstwhile center of the hamlet, Galatea was met by a crowd. As much as a crowd could be, when there were only a good dozen few ponies, most of whom were tending to their newly-built huts.

A dozen or so ponies were a crowd, nonetheless, to Galatea’s senses. She hadn’t felt herself tense up when she did. Only when she’d realised Broadleaf had moved further ahead of her, greeting his fellows in his open, friendly fashion, did Galatea release a sigh.

“Broadleaf!” cried a pale brown colt, “you’re back!”

All heads in the crowd turned towards them. One by one, they cheered and called out, all sorts of voices both young and old.

“Broadleaf!”

“Welcome back!”

“Where have you been? We’ve been waiting!”

Plenty of cheers and greetings all around. Soon enough, Broadleaf was swept up by them, his unassuming smile equalled only by theirs. The children, three of them at least, ran round and round the stallion, laughter filling the air.

Then, one of them, a little, mottled-green filly, stopped in her gallop. She tugged at her mother besides her, pointing towards Galatea.

“Who’s that?” she asked. The cheers and greetings died down, taken over by a hushed silence, their eyes now fixing on Galatea. And, for a few, fleeting moments, none dared to speak. Whether it was by fear, by curiosity, she could not tell.

It did not matter. She had not anticipated being met by this many ponies, but it would have to do. She stepped forth, parting and quieting the crowd. Her tail swished, yet her hooves tensed anew. The ghostly feel of her hidden wings and horn were felt all too keenly now.

Of course, Broadleaf chose that moment to speak aloud.

“I have met a friend, down in the woods while foraging,” said Broadleaf, touching his bag to indicate what unidentified contents he’d returned with. Breaking free of his companions, he went to join her side. “She’s a strong, capable mare, and surely, her aid would be most welcome!”


The mother of the mottled-green filly tilted her head. “What village is she from?” She stared at Galatea. “What village are you from?”

For this, at least, an answer came organically to Galatea. “I am a nomad.”

It was only after the fact she realized, this was the second time she’d spoken to a living being.

Broadleaf nodded slowly. “I think… I think she was looking for a friend.”

“And any friend of Broadleaf is a friend of ours,” an elder mare spoke up, voice warm like crackling embers. Emerging from the crowd, hunched, wrinkled, but with confident steps that belied her age, she was an ashen-grey matriarch, her coat not unlike Galatea’s own. She looked to meet Galatea’s eyes with her tranquil green pair. “Now, what is your name, young one?”

From the corner of her eye, Galatea saw Broadleaf’s nervous glance. Strange, It wasn’t his name they were asking for, it was hers. She glanced at him, then back at the elder.  So many names, few that would pass easily. 

Then Broadleaf cleared his throat.

“Galena,” he said, “that is her name. A lovely name for a lovely mare.”

Galatea’s eyes widened fractionally. A few scattered laughs followed, including the children’s. Broadleaf patted her back. The matriarch chuckled.

“A fine name, Galena,” she said. “You can call me Bright Hearth. I bid you welcome to our hamlet.”

A cheerful name, for a sullen-coloured mare, Galatea thought. She bobbed her head, a gesture that was answered in kind by Bright Hearth. She wasn’t sure what it was for, though it certainly indicated approval.

“What is your trade, child?”

“Mine trade?” Galatea repeated. She looked down at her own two hooves. Chipped, weathered. Just as expected. “I labour tirelessly, I suppose. And I keep watch.”

Curious murmurs arose from all around them. Bright Hearth rubbed her chin, her dark grey eyes twinkling. Galatea cleared her throat.

“But as mine companion said, honored matriarch,” said Galatea, glancing at Broadleaf, “I shall provide aid, should you ask for it. I suppose he has asked for it, and I have pledged yes.”

“Wonderful!” said Bright Hearth. “The more hooves we have, the better. Please, Galena, what might you ask for, in return?”

To that, Galatea waved her hoof.

“Nothing, nothing much at all, honored matriarch. I only ask for this experience.”


* * * * *


Galatea did not know how much time passed afterward. Only that, after moment’s deliberation, the matriarch Bright Hearth did nod and let her be on her way, walking beside Broadleaf Heart. The curious stares had not escaped Galatea’s notice. They’d passed most of the hamlet’s inhabitants, engaging in their afternoon routine, from the children to the adults. It was only when they reached the shade of an old, twisted tree, at the fringe where the clearing met the larger forest, that Galatea turned to Broadleaf and asked aloud.

“Don’t your companions trust me, Broadleaf?” 

Broadleaf halted in his walk, tilting his head. He bit his lips, tapping the ground.

“What’s wrong?” asked Broadleaf. “What brought this up?”

“This, all of this.” Shaking her head, Galatea gestured to all of the hamlet. “I spy their glances thrown our way, suspicious glances.”

Broadleaf’s eyes followed her forehoof, then darted left and right, surely taking in the sight of a few wary souls. He shook his head.

“Plenty of reasons why they have their eyes on you, you know,” he mused, clearing his throat before Galatea could interject. “See here, Galatea, you… are quite prominent.”

Galatea frowned, pawing at the dirt. “Am I?” she asked. “Preposterous. I am certain this name of mine you’ve given is a sufficient disguise.”

Broadleaf let out a nervous little laugh.

“It is an uncommon name, yes,” said Broadleaf. “It was the unicorn alchemists’ term for what we would call lead. They do like their fancy names!”

“It should not be such an oddity, then,” Galatea replied, frowning.

“Oh, earthponies still do not mingle so freely among unicorns,” Broadleaf lamented. “Even with the Warming of The Hearth, there’s still a way to go before we’ll see ourselves as one people... But a mare like you, I’m sure you must’ve seen them often.”

Galatea shook her head. “Not as often as I wish. Perhaps you ought to have used mine true name. Then it would not be so prominent.”

“You asked me not to, and I promised you I wouldn’t,” answered Broadleaf. “And I keep the promises I make. They’re hard to come by.”

He looked down at her hooves, then smiled. “Don’t you worry, you’ll fit in just fine, I’m sure. Come, there’s much to be done, and the day is not yet over.”



* * * * *


The days and weeks that followed began for Galatea and Broadleaf Heart at Sunrise, and only ended at Sunset. With the thawing of the Long Winter, the days grew ever longer in the Spring. So too, thus, did the workload.  The huts which Broadleaf’s people had built were just the beginning for his community. There were so much more the little hamlet needed, to flourish and to provide shelter.

It began with the bridge. One log did not a bridge make, as Galatea had observed and Broadleaf was to concur. Together with the hardiest amongst the villagers, ten in total, Galatea carried her  heavy share of logs, laying them across the stream for safe passage.

They then needed rope to tie the bridge together, but rope itself had to be crafted. Knowing this, the villagers had settled close to a patch in the forest where hemp grew, and collected its seeds to sow for future years. The hemp was harvested, strands extracted, woven together into string, which became rope when two strings were circled around one another, not unlike the spiral of a unicorn’s horn. Or an alicorn’s...

Now, more could cross safely, with a far lesser risk of being caught by the stream.

Next came the farms. The grounds here may be fertile, yet there was only so much space near the hamlet itself to sustain its needs. With Winter’s memory still fresh, more than a few were worried over supplies when the time came to face the next harsh Winter, even a year away. So Galatea guided them to where she had fed for centuries, to the clusters of berries and mushrooms and other plants in the undergrowth, lest the small farm they had toiled on would not serve them well.

The watermill was built next. This one, Galatea was fascinated by, seeing in its construction the greatest display of artisanship for a hamlet where none of the dwellings were built of stone. Its many working parts moved in synch with one another, crushing grain into flour for the bread. She had asked, as she moved bags of grain into place and watch the water work its magic, for lack of a better term, who could had devised such an ingenious device. Broadleaf, sadly, did not know much of it, prompting Galatea to remind herself that one day, she’d have to look into it.

But huts became cottages. Little cottages for the farmer, the miller, the baker. All built with laughter in their hearts, and conviction, all to shelter them from the elements. They weren’t the prettiest of homes, a far cry from the opulent unicorn castles or the foreboding pegasi fortresses Galatea had seen in her travels, but they were home. And that was all they needed.

Every day, Galatea would emerge from her nook, share in her berries and roots from her morning walks for breakfast with her companion, before taking on the day’s work. She worked with Broadleaf by her side, long into the evening. And always after dinner, Broadleaf shared the tales of his travels over the campfire to wind down for the day, regaling them with legends from Firefly to Gusty the Great, heroes of all three pony tribes.

Every retelling was special. Broadleaf’s boisterous laugh livened up the night, as did his joyous encouragements towards the others to share their own little anecdotes..

But when her companions asked for her story in turn, Galatea would always turn them down, excusing herself for the night soon after. She would return to her nook in the old mountain, with not another worry. Often, the questions they posed could bear much more weight than a log upon her back. Questions of who she was, questions of her past, her home. The question of her family, above all, could so often distract her until Broadleaf asked if anything was wrong. 

Galatea wasn’t sure she liked that. Such petty concerns for family should not weigh down on her.

One day, however, she excused herself from work, returned to her mountain, and saw someone was already there.


* * * * *


“What are you doing here?” demanded Galatea.

The intruder sputtered and muttered, fumbling on his hooves. “Galatea!” he called out. His braid swung in the afternoon breeze, his smile graceful and gentle.

“Not so loud!” hissed Galatea.

Broadleaf blinked, then looked around the rocky outcrop frantically. “Apologies,” he stammered, dragging his eyes to meet hers. “Galena! Hello I… I was waiting for you.”

Once she was sure of their secrecy, she turned her eyes back to Broadleaf in a suspicious glare.

“Waiting for me, are you,” Galatea repeated, in disbelief. “I have done mine labour for the day. The Sun is setting soon. You should rest as well.”

When Broadleaf did not move, Galatea stepped closer.

“What do you want? I have nothing of worth.”

“Oh, nothing big, I assure you,” replied Broadleaf. Galatea stopped, her muzzle very close to his. A cold drop of sweat slid down Broadleaf’s cheek. He stammered, “I-I only wished to talk to you. It has been in my mind for some time, and I could wait no longer.”

Galatea raised an eyebrow. “About?” 

Broadleaf drew a sharp breath. “You,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about you, Galena. About... Who you are.”

“... What?”

“Yes, you heard right,” said Broadleaf. When Galatea did not say anything else, he pressed on. “I… I suppose it’s been a long time coming, but, I… I am curious, you see.”

One hoof at a time, Galatea moved back, holding her breath, until she was a foreleg’s reach away from her companion. This was not in the plan. This was never in her plan. But she could not leave him here, wondering. He could return to the hamlet. Perhaps cast her out, even.

Except the Broadleaf she knew would never know that. His gaze was that of concern. Slowly, Galatea released her breath.

“I… told you,” she began, softly, “I have nothing of worth. No possession. No story worth telling.”

Annoyingly, Broadleaf let out a chuckle. Not a boisterous, nor mocking one. But one that tugged at her. Why, Galatea thought, did he have to make it so hard?

“I don’t believe you,” said Broadleaf. He pointed towards her nook, hidden from view by a curtain of leaves and moss Galatea had asked for. “Surely, someone like you…?”

“No,” Galatea repeated, but she didn’t know if she even believed it. “Nothing, Broadleaf…”

An idea crossed through her mind. She hadn’t had much time to talk to Broadleaf, outside of their long work days. The walk down the forest path had passed by so long ago.

Yes. It would do.

“... If any, I’d like to hear yours first.”

At first, a pause. A laugh followed. A hearty, boisterous laugh.

“You’re a sly mare, aren’t you?” Broadleaf said. “Only if you tell me yours,.” He raised a hoof as Galatea opened her mouth to retort. “But only when you are ready. What say you to that?”

This was not part of the plan. This was never part of the plan. Then Broadleaf smiled again, and Galatea found the resolve to answer.

“Only when I am ready, Broadleaf,” she said. “Then we shall talk.”


* * * * *


Readiness, Galatea found, was difficult to come by. Days and nights went by after that talk, the hamlet grew larger still, but still she never felt it coming. Often, guilt struck her whenever Broadleaf would glance with those warm, kind eyes of his, hoping for a word out of her. 

“Not at the moment, Broadleaf,” she would answer, and he would oblige. Sometimes, though, it was she who’d asked, when she was sure no-one would hear. He’d answer the same. Whether it was over campfire or another hut to build, always the same reply.

Galatea did not mind, and neither did Broadleaf, she hoped. They would have the time. For now, they were content with what little they had, and life went on as it should. 

Until one day, when Galatea worked to gather firewood at the edge of the forest, within sight of Broadleaf up on the roof of what would become their hamlet’s longhall. It would be their greatest building, a hall to welcome all, wherein Bright Hearth said they would celebrate.

Galatea had turned her back when she heard a cry.

“Help! I’m, I’m stuck!”

Her blood running cold, Galatea’s gaze drifted to the source. A filly, one of the few children she had seen here, had played too close to where their longhall would be, nudged a wooden beam too far, and got a hoof stuck between the timbers.

Shaken loose by the filly’s struggling, the beam swung towards her, freely, without pause. Galatea acted then, crying out in alarm and dropping her stack of firewood, but as an earthpony, even she was too slow, too far, too late.

A shadow went by, dropping down from the roof. Galatea cried out.

“Broadleaf!” 

He did not heed her for one moment. He dashed by, pushed the child out of the way, and the beam smashed against his hindlegs.


* * * * *


Galatea did not say much, when she carried Broadleaf to his cottage close by the forest’s edge. Bright Hearth had followed, carrying a supply of herbs in a basket she assured Galatea would help him, and now here they sat by his side, allowing him rest upon the soft, straw-covered floor.

Now Galatea braved herself to speak.

“You are a fool,” she chided. “You should…”

“What?” Broadleaf countered, biting back a grimace. “What would you have had me do, Galena? She was right there, and no one else was.”

“Hold it, you two,” Bright Hearth interrupted, holding up a herbal plaster. She beckoned for Galatea’s helping hoof, and Galatea followed where commanded. “Hold him steady, young one. This will hurt.”

The scream that followed told Galatea that it did, indeed, but one look at her face, and Broadleaf’s grimace softened to a sheepish, awkward grin.

“There you go,” Bright Hearth said tenderly.. “The splint shall let your bones heal.”

Upon sighting Galatea’s cocked eyebrow, she chuckled. “The unicorns are not the only ones gifted in the arts of healing, young one. We have our own ways.”

“I see that well,” said Galatea, prior to pausing, so she could contemplate her words a moment. “And, if I may, I would like to see him through.” She glanced at her companion. “I should have intervened, however little I could do. You are wise and cherished, matriarch, and the hamlet will require your guidance still. I shall take it from here.”

Galatea had expected a protest, or a scolding. But instead, Bright Hearth merely nodded.

“You did ask for experience. Very well. Yet I will return, now and then, with whatever is needed. For now, let him rest.”

She left out the door, leaving the two of them in the cottage. Without looking at Broadleaf, without another word, Galatea laid down by his side. Strange, she thought, that now of all times, she didn’t want to see a single trace of his wound. Perhaps she was too used to seeing him unblemished, after all.

Broadleaf’s voice tickled her ear, quieter than usual.

“Galatea?” he said. “Thank you.”

She glanced at him, frowning. “You…” she began, but relented. “You should rest. It has been a long day for you.”

Broadleaf laughed, though it wasn’t his strongest laugh. “And it hasn’t been for you?”

“You know what I mean. If you are concerned, Broadleaf, about your safety– I know you stand watch every night– I shall remain here, by your side, until you are healed, whether it be by mine hooves or the matriarch’s.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Galatea looked away, seeking solace in the sound of the stream that rushed nearby. It was gentle, and pleasant enough, taking her mind off of the beam that fell, the wound Broadleaf now bore.

“A rest sounds like a fine idea,” he said, “but with you, never a worry to be had.”

Galatea felt him press his neck against hers, breathing out a heavy sigh. But she did not recoil, nor move one inch, and soon after they fell asleep, hoof in hoof, her head resting against his.


* * * * *


In the days that went by, the hamlet’s growth grinded to a slow halt. The others would pay Broadleaf a visit, paying their dues. Bright Hearth had assured everyone the wound to his hindleg was not life-long, and he’d be back to what he was, in time. Nevertheless, the truth remained that he could not work. He’d been a pillar to them, carrying more weight than any other could while he still walked. Without him, some vigour had been lost.

He was never alone, at least. Galatea made sure of that. Broadleaf appreciated her company, as much as if not more than Bright Hearth’s. Galatea knew this, but still felt uncertain as to why. From the way he thanked her more often, the small glances he’d give her after she’d fed him a bowl of soup, and how they’d curl up around one another in the nights, Galatea sensed a kinship was forming between them. Yet she did not know what name to give, or where it had come from.

It was on the last day of Summer, shortly after his injury, that Broadleaf asked Galatea that she grant him a favor at last. She had just finished knotting his braid when he spoke.

“Galatea,” said Broadleaf, “though I grow fond of your company, you must go and aid them, in finishing our hamlet.”

Galatea shot him a questioning look.

“No,” she said simply, “that is your duty. And you are still hurt, Broadleaf. I cannot allow you to work so early. I am no healer, but surely your healing comes first.”

He made no sound, choosing to answer by laying a forehoof on her own.

“Please, my friend,” he said. “You and I both know Autumn is coming, and after it, Winter. Not a very kind prospect for our harvest. And… well, isn’t it’s time you get to know our neighbours, truly know them?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Tell me,” Broadleaf said. “What is the name of our farmer? What is the name of Bright Hearth’s firstborn child, or the weaver’s daughter?”

“Their names…”

Her voice disappeared. There was nothing Galatea could say to that. Few names she could recall. Only the plan and path Mother had set her on.

Broadleaf wrapped her hoof in both of his own, and Galatea closed her eyes.

“Very well,” whispered Galatea. She made no move to withdraw her forehoof. “Before I part, then, Broadleaf– please, tell me. Why? Why did you ask me to come? You could have just as well walked away and left this strange mare on her mountain.”

Her companion contemplated his forehooves, still around hers. He sighed.

“Because,” Broadleaf began, alighting a tender gaze on Galatea, “because you were alone. We earthponies keep our ties strong and close, with one another and the earth beneath ourselves.”

Slowly, he formed a thin smile. Neither boisterous, nor proud, nor shining. Merely a sign of kindness and acceptance.

“You should not have been alone, Galatea. None of us should be.” Gently still, he removed one of his forehooves, to place it against her shoulder. “Thank you, for keeping me company. But the hamlet needs you. Go, Galatea. I will be here.”

Galatea nodded, ever so slowly.

“I shall return every night, Broadleaf, until you are healed.”


* * * * *


Galatea went to work soon after. As a matter of fact, the longhall was not far from completion, but lacking Broadleaf, others had needed to take on an added burden next to their own chores, if they had not set them aside entirely – which few of them could, for however important the longhall was to their community, far more pressing were always the thousand tiny duties which kept their stomachs full, their fires lit and a roof above their heads. Then they saw Galatea lift her first load of timber since Broadleaf’s accident, and their uncertainties vanished.

They toiled together, pulling, carrying, kicking into place. Together they worked with her silent participation, as Broadleaf had instructed. Yet Galatea also took the time to immerse herself in other matters, whenever a break would come.

First she asked the name of the farmer, whenever she came to pick up grain. He was a stallion, thinner and younger than Broadleaf, green as his name – Green Pines. He wore a farmer’s hat, made of straw, and though he was gruff in the ways Broadleaf wasn’t, Galatea grew used to his company and conversation.

Next she’d asked of Bright Hearth’s firstborn, a lumberjack who went by the name Midsummer. Midsummer often met her down at the longhall, aiding her in carrying the vital lumber, or converting it into timber. Excitable and dutiful, his fur a lighter shade of brown than Broadleaf’s, Galatea nodded to his words whenever he’d talk about seeing the hamlet grow large.


Last was the child, the weaver’s daughter, the one who Broadleaf had risked his life for. Her name was Birdsong, her yellow-streaked mane complimenting her mottled-green fur, eyes as green as emeralds. Lithe and shy, Birdsong had so often followed Galatea in secret, watching her morning walks. It was one such peeping which had led her to become entangled in the timber. All Galatea had to say, to her profuse apologies, was a simple pat on the back, and all was well.

There were only so many Galatea could find and name. There was little time to mingle, between building the longhall and caring for Broadleaf. She had a duty to carry out, as she’d promised. And carry it out she did, through thick and thin. Time passed quickly, but not too long after Broadleaf’s injury, the last stone was pushed into place, the last wooden beam set firmly. The longhall, crafted of wood and stone, at last was finished. At that, the hamlet’s people cheered and celebrated, in accordance to what Bright Hearth had predicted. 

There was only one whom Galatea wished to inform, though. And he stood there, smiling, outside his cottage when she went to see him, slipping by the cheering crowd.


* * * * *


Upon the straw-covered floor, Galatea laid down by Broadleaf Heart’s side, just before his door, close enough to feel his fur brush against hers. They watched their neighbours pass by, the children playing. For once, there would be no work tonight. The harvest had yet to finish getting brought in, yet this occasion warranted its own festival, that’d be held this one time, this year. Villagers would not celebrate a building’s completion years after the great day. They would, however, celebrate the bringing-in of the harvest every year, just as surely as the wheel on the mill turned back to where it had started.

Galatea had glimpsed such happenings from afar. Now she’d been part of one. After that long, long time she’d spent at the mountain, waiting for any other change besides the tiny difference that she made to the bedrock every day, she pondered to see these people who lived in the now. And yet the wheel still turned. Autumn had arrived, and Winter would follow soon.

Her thoughts were broken when Broadleaf nudged her shoulder, a welcome smirk on his lips.

“You should celebrate,” said Broadleaf. “You’ve done plenty enough as it is. Come now, Winter’s not coming for a good few months.”

Galatea sighed. “I suppose it shall be a longer rest than usual,” she said. “But mine duties have been resolved.”

She stood up to leave, paying him a look of acknowledgment.

“You know where to find me, Broadleaf,” she said, nodding. “And I shall give aid, should you, or Birdsong, or Bright Hearth, or anyone else need it again.”

Broadleaf gave her a curious glance. He shook his head, seemingly begging.

“Come now, Galatea,” he said. “Stay here, closer to us all. There is plenty of space, and I... wouldn’t mind your presence. In fact I’d embrace it gladly. I’ve… grown used to you around.”

He staggered to his hooves. Galatea moved to support him, but Broadleaf waved her off.

“I am fine, not to worry!” he said, letting out his familiar boisterous chuckle. “Please, though. Would you stay with me?”

With only slight hesitation, Galatea shook her head. “I’m afraid I cannot,” she said. “Pleasant as this is, and though I’ve grown used to being around you as well, it is mine duty to stand vigil, in case the woods should come forth to reclaim this hamlet. I must return to mine nook.”

Broadleaf’s smile wavered, but he did not relent. He placed a forehoof on her back, just as Galatea was turning to leave.

“At least, come drink with us tonight,” he said. “Celebrate. Be merry. You’ll have earned it. You have done your share, as we all did.”

The touch of his hoof on her back wasn’t forceful, but inviting as his words were. Galatea saw no reason to push it off. She turned to him, and nodded.


* * * * *


Broadleaf Heart’s braid was trimmer and tidier than normal was when Galatea came to meet him at the longhall. It would become unraveled as the night went on, all filled with laughter and more stories than even Galatea could keep track of.

Mead had a tingling taste, tickling Galatea’s tongue. It was pleasant enough for her to drink, though Broadleaf had cautioned her against offering it to Birdsong. And songs were sung, many tales shared, dances done atop tables to the music of fiddles, on the joyous occasion this was. Still Galatea kept to herself, just as she’d preferred, watching Broadleaf and his friends roister. On occasion, he’d ask her to join in, to which Galatea simply raised her pint. The temptation were plenty, such as when he offered his hoof in dancing, or when little Birdsong asked her to.

Ultimately they settled on daring Galatea to gulp down a full pint without batting an eye. They cheered, patted her back, laughing along. None more so than Broadleaf, his ever-present laughter tickling Galatea’s ears, gracing her with its warmth and that unknown feeling.

When all was said and done, they all parted ways, ready to face another day’s worth of work in the fields and in the forest. Strong and sturdy Broadleaf was the most dazed of them all, as it turned out, staggering on his hooves, slurred and uncertain in speech. How fortunate that his recovery had been so complete, she could only muse.

Galatea escorted him home, letting him lean on her shoulder, him giggling a little drunkenly still. Once or twice he pressed his lips on her cheek, but Galatea paid him little heed, patiently knowing that what a stallion did under the influence of drink was oft as fanciful as child’s play. In the recesses of her consciousness, the question etched itself of just how much drink it’d take her to reach half the inebriation of these ponies, whom she so resembled and yet wasn’t one of.

By the time they’d reached his cottage, Broadleaf had got so tired, he collapsed almost immediately, snoring and dozing off. Much as, again, a child would. And Galatea tucked him in, gently covering his form with a blanket, and leaving with nary another word uttered.

Within her mountain nook that night, though, her dreams were filled with the vision of what it might be to live in a home like the hamlet’s denizens had built for themselves, to return to after a hard day’s work, with a hearty drink in one’s gut and a loyal companion at one’s side.



> IV ~ The Traveller From The North
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


IV



The Traveller From The North





Galatea’s nights were filled with dreams. She’s dreamt before, of course, in the few times she’d found time to herself. Often, she could touch the dream, too. She wished that she could bend it, little by little, as she saw fit. Yet it was small comfort. There was little that she could find here, in the vast expanse of her dreams. Only trees far as her eyes could see. And try as she could, she never could touch the stars, or even the Sun and Moon above. So she settled for the mountain. Her mountain. Home, or as close as she could make it, a lonely rock island in a sea of trees. She’d try to cross the sea of trees here, yet always, without fail, would she find herself standing before her mountain yet again.

Now, as she dreamt, that island was a little much larger, for a clearing was to be found, close to the little nook where she rested. It was fertile, she saw, with plants sprouting through the soil, blooming, then decaying as the cycle started anew.

She stood there in silence, thinking of what could be here to fill it, for nights and days to come. Perhaps buildings would sprout from the soil as the plants did, wood and stone and all. The mill where the harvest was stored. The longhall where all gathered to cheer, housing the mare they knew so very little of. That little cottage sitting at the forest’s edge, and the stallion who’d welcome her with a boisterous laugh.

She would wake up very soon, as she always did. Yet, this time around, and for many nights yet, Galatea thought little of crossing the forest, for here and now, she had all she needed.


* * * * *


Life in the hamlet went on. Winter’s freezing touch may have loomed, yet one could be forgiven to think this was not the case, for as the years went by, not a day was left without some cheer. The harvest this Summer had been good. Buildings stood firm against the elements. And the children flourished, laughing and playing amidst falling leaves. This then was what Galatea saw, as she toiled away, working where she was needed. She still had her duties, that was true. Every morning she would climb up the mountain when no one could see her, eyes upon the expanse, watching in silent vigil. Yet now, when she came down the mountainside, there was more than forest to greet her.

It would begin as Galatea passed by the lumberjack Midsummer, marching into the forest to collect the wood. If need be, she offered him aid, and he would accept. She knew he planned to raise a family, judging from the eye he case upon the longhall’s stew-cook, a pretty face named Evening Rose. A mere glance was understanding enough for her to assist him as he built a new, larger cottage.

Further on was Green Pines, who separated wheat from chaff down at his farm. Living this life, he was not always so green and vibrant as his name, and often did Galatea remind him to take a break from himself, for his dedication was cast in no doubt.

And close to the end of the road, Birdsong would await her arrival. Birdsong, who’d grown in the intervening years, a child who still loved to show off what loom she and her mother had spun. Although the little one’s work was of a rough stitch, Galatea’s practised eye saw the pattern slowly emerging in the threads that one day would weave together, surely as a sprout from a flower bud. 

Lastly, and this Galatea looked forward to most, each day there was Broadleaf. Dear, tireless Broadleaf. He’d toil around the hamlet, much like her but past all effort including her own, and never a day did pass that sweat wasn’t shed, or even a drop of blood. It was effort that left him looking rough at day’s end, his coat a tapestry of small cuts both fresh and old, his hooves more chipped than hers, perhaps. She remembered. During their time spent together as he’d lain recovering from his injury, Galatea had taken his grooming upon herself, seeing to it that his mane was kept combed, courtesy of a comb made of dragon-bone, as owned by all in the hamlet. So too had she nursed his pains when they arose, to the best of her skill. 

Only in matter of ablutions, for reasons Galatea somehow knew, yet not from where – maybe it was one more of the mysterious gifts imparted on her by Mother – had she understood to keep a wall between them, the matriarch Bright Hearth attending to what was needed. 

… Curious. In her years alone in the wilderness, and she knew not how long they had been, Galatea had learned that a deep sleep held a power of renewal over her. When ethereal, her mane had required no brush, no comb. Her scrapes and bruises all faded in time, yes, even the wear upon her hooves. Rain and river-water had sufficed to purge her coat of impurities, and all else she had handled with propriety. But this was one way in which, the longer she spent time with these mortal ponies, their practices became her own, as if by necessity. As they bathed every Saturday, so did she, and Birdsong had offered to braid her mane.

Indeed, these were the days where Galatea saw her mind eye’s turn further outward. As she had not before in the years before, she felt growing awareness of the mortal body. No matter her guise, and those frailties she allowed it, her body was never mortal. In the forest, she had watched the little bird live, age and die. Mortality was part of her watch, not her being. Yet a difference, little by little, had dawned in her perspective, now she walked amongst the ponies as if she were one.

Broadleaf’s recovery had been complete in spirit. But, conceal it though he might, it did not evade Galatea that his injury had lingered on. His strength of will remained, yet the body could not rise nor push forth quite as before. His gait had turned a little slower, his grip a little weaker. It was incremental, yet she saw it, possibly sooner than the ones who’d known him all their lives. She had watched life for long enough. 

To all eyes, he remained a mountainous presence. Yet even a mountain can be ground down. Galatea found herself unsure what this meant to her.

Thus, nowadays, one became two, as she joined him in his labour. Often he would fill the time with simple talk, or none at all, should she say she wished to work in silence. It did not matter. His companionship was all Galatea required in order to work on, through the fading light of Autumn, and into the freezing embrace of Winter, as always.

The first Winter they endured was not as cold or biting as the long night of yesteryear. Yet it was harsh enough as it was. Not all were built to survive it. They buried seven of their own before the longest night of the year had arrived.

Neither Galatea nor Broadleaf thought of rest, not when the hamlet needed the warmest embers. So they pulled their weight, cutting firewood, cooking warm meals for the elderly among them, watching over the hamlet’s growing number of babes and young children. 

It was no easy task, for day and night this went on. More than once did Broadleaf falter, sleeping long into the night by Galatea’s side. Yet a warm blanket was never far, carried in her hoof, and few would fault her for staying there, unmoving, watching the crackling embers beside her companion.

It was all that she needed.

Then, towards the end of their fifth Winter, came the traveller from the North.


* * * * *


This visitor was unlike any the hamlet had seen. They were taller than any stallion in the village, taller than even Galatea, yet with build and gait more lithe than the most graceful of ponies. Their step was light, and one would not be hard-pressed to picture them darting across the sky, trailing stardust. Small wonder, though, that Galatea found that she recognised the traveller’s kind at a glance, even before she lowered the hood of her silken blue cloak.

The traveller was no pony at all. She was a Reindeer of the North.

Graceful, ethereal, her silver fur shimmered in the light of the setting Winter Sun. Her tranquil green eyes were the shade of evergreen leaves. Slung across her back were a pair of pale saddlebags, woven with fine thread, yet there was no mistaking their rugged nature, from how the weave-pattern looked to Galatea’s eyes.

The adults of the hamlet, Galatea among them, stood by in a half-circle around the doe. The children crowded at the longhall’s top-floor windows. Murmurs grew at the sight of her, hushed whispers amongst the children and a few of the more curious adults. Broadleaf, though, exchanged only a nod and glance with Galatea. Had she still had her wings, they would have been draped over Broadleaf. But for now, standing side by side would have to do.

Before either could step forward and speak aloud, Bright Hearth moved past, standing a stone’s throw away from the doe.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” she said. “My name is Bright Hearth. What brings a Reindeer of Adlaborn here, so far down South?”

The doe gave a deep bow.

“My name is Lilja,” said the silver doe, meeting Bright Hearth’s eyes. “and I come here bearing gifts for all. To comfort in your sorrow, to give reminder in your joy.”

She set down her saddlebags. The sound of bells and wooden tools from within were unmistakeable.

“And what warrants these gifts, friend Lilja?” asked Bright Hearth, eyebrows raised.

Lilja’s smile was calm and serene. Her ears flicked for a moment. “Why, nothing short of the Two Sisters’ name days, my lady.”


* * * * *


Peculiar creatures, Reindeer were. Accomplished magicians of snow and ice, weavers of what they called stardust, the tiny motes of the ethereal flow which surrounded all living things. Galatea had spotted them in the corner of her eye, all her existence. It was her memory’s bookmark, that which made her the Scribe which her Mother had said she’d be. When the children asked Lilja how she had travelled down South, the doe merely pointed towards the skies, and traced circles in the air with a cloven forehoof. How precious were their looks of wonder when she went further, and pranced all around the longhall’s hearth, showering them amidst their cheers in a trail of glittering powder. Joyous laughter thus followed her wherever she went, and Lilja’s tiny, mischievous smile did not escape Galatea’s watchful gaze.

But neither did the doe’s evasiveness, from the moment Bright Hearth had inquired about the two sisters of whom she spoke. All Lilja had to say then, naturally, was that all would be told them in due time, for she had gifts to spread and stories to tell. Few had qualms over this, for Lilja came bearing many gifts indeed, and Galatea paid her no mind once Birdsong received hers – a spool of thread.

Pushing the thought of newborn, strange magical foals to the back of her head, Galatea turned from the wooden balustrade, from which she’d viewed the children huddled around the doe leaving the longhall, to join Broadleaf downstairs at the large oaken table where Lilja had left her gifts. Little remained by then, but even those gifts the other adults had not taken drew Galatea’s notice.

Almost otherworldly, were they, amidst the sparseness of the hamlet. Miniature, wind-up Reindeer figures, driven by springs and gears within. Enchanting, snowflake-marked music boxes. Snowglobes whose contents never seemed to remain still. Along with other, far more functional tools, plows and hammers and sickles, hewn from wood and base metal, yet hardier than stone at one glance.

Most curious of all, however, was the device that rested before Galatea’s eyes. A polished wooden contraption, akin to an obelisk, with a circular face. Twelve notches circled the center.

She turned to look at Broadleaf. As he hadn’t noticed her descend, she cleared her throat.

“Broadleaf?” she asked. Her companion’s eyes darted round to meet hers.

“Yes, Galena?” said Broadleaf, setting down the chisel he was inspecting. “What is your wish?”

She indicated the contraption, drawing his eyes back towards it. He let out a chuckle.

“Oh, this? This is a clock, crafted in an Adlaborn workshop,” said Broadleaf. “Curious little thing, isn’t it? Maple, from the looks of it. Lovely.” He tapped it, once then twice. “Such good artisanship, too! Not something you’d find in an earthpony’s workshop– Oh, pardon me, ahem, it… well, it keeps track of the time. So you know how time passes at night, like it does in the day, without having to map the Sun or the stars… I haven’t seen one of these since I was a child, at a fair...”

"I see," answered Galatea. "And how does it work?"

Broadleaf showed her its markings. As she’d spotted, twelve there were, in all. Three thin arrows pointed to the notches, with the longest and thinnest moving at a steady tick.

“Three hands of the clock here,” he said. “Every time the shortest one moves, a second passes. Once it completes one full circle, sixty seconds long, a minute has passed, and then the second hand moves. And every sixty minutes, an hour has passed, and the shortest hand follows with it.”

She looked at him. “You never told me you could count.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he asked mildly. “It’s useful. Though, I will admit, it’s a lot easier to count the things you can see. I don’t know how they did it, but the Reindeer… well, they found a way to count time.”

"Fascinating," Galatea said, nodding along. She lifted the clock in her forehooves, looking it over. A sigil of a single snowflake marked the rear. She pondered her next query, if only for a moment. "And... how many seconds are there in eternity?"

Broadleaf blinked, confused.

“Ahem… I... do not know, for sure. That’s a mighty big question of you to ask me...” said Broadleaf, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “But… perhaps when that mountain is dust with your blows, then one second in eternity will have passed. However long it takes.”

“Perhaps,” Galatea agreed. She put the clock down. “So it shall be.”

He gave her a curious look. “Is that what you were doing, at your mountain?” he said quietly. “Was that a way you were counting time?”

Galatea more than heard his question. She felt it. 

“Maybe… I suppose that it was,” she said. “These seconds you speak of… I’d never heard of them before you showed me this clock. But I feel as if, when I close mine eyes and open mine mind, I myself have been able to count them all mine life. That, or something like them.”

Before her unblinking eyes, the image danced of the stardust, that same which the Reindeer left in their trail as, working through a prism of childlike wonder, a conduct as powerful and marvelous and dangerous as water to lightning, they took the seed of mystery and sowed it back into the world.

“Who taught you how to count, Galena?”

“I am not sure that I was taught,” whispered Galatea. “I just… know certain things. But I’ve spent the time since trying to learn more.”

“Well if you say so, my friend,” Broadleaf said, patting her back. “That’s a very long time for you to be grinding down mountains, but every little effort counts, yea?” He looked towards the door, ears flicking. A smile formed, then widened. “Come along, let’s join the others.”

And so they left the clock, ticking away in solitude. But one last musing passed Galatea’s mind.

‘One second in eternity,’ she thinks to herself. ‘That is how long mine duty shall be.’

Her confidence reignited, she joined Broadleaf, walking side by side.


* * * * *


Down the stairs they went, the both of them, till they came across the assembled children, and their parents too, listening to Lilja’s stories. Such wondrous stories, folktales Galatea had not heard from the hamlet’s inhabitants or caught in her secretive travels, she was sure. Stories of great deeds and legendary champions, to join in the warmth of the hearth. She’d arrived at the tail-end of one such story, that of a pegasus named Gusty the Great, vanquishing the evil ram Grogar in ages past. And in this new age, the earthponies could listen to a tale of a pegasus, and hear the tale of a worthy hero.

But of all the stories Lilja had promised, there was none which had caught Galatea’s attention as the one she’d come here pledging to deliver news of. This one was not a fairytale at all, Galatea felt with a mounting, inexorable certitude.

“What of the two sisters?” she blurted, just as Lilja was finishing her story. She’d regretted it, a little, as all eyes turned on her. Broadleaf and Birdsong’s, in particular, bore heavily upon her.

Lilja did not move from where she stood, still as a statue. Until her eyes moved to meet Galatea’s whereupon she smiled.

“I was just getting to them, friend,” said Lilja, with nought a trace of condescension, still in that tranquil, calming tone, “and theirs is a story I’d love to tell.”

She sat down on her haunches, her forehoof drawing a trail of stardust, turned visible to the naked eye within the air, as she’d done before. With a wave off to the side, the light of every hearthfire within the hall dimmed to a soft glow, eliciting a couple of low murmurs and gasps from the attending villagers, till only the crackling light of the fireplace remained undiminished.

“Once, there were three tribes,” said Lilja, tracing a shimmering golden circle in the warm, glowing embers of the fireplace, casting an orange light upon the faces of those watching. “The unicorns, proud mages who seek to uncover the mysteries of the realm...”

From within the circle, prismatic motes shifted into a vision, a pony of glimmering purple, their forehead crowned by a mighty and majestic horn. The conjuration followed in the direction of Lilja’s guiding forehoof, motioning their horn with a graceful flick, which from the tip cast a bright and burning star of flame from the fire itself. The star shot up far, far above, and thereupon it burst in mid-air over them all in a shower of a nameless element, ember-like, its only known property that it glittered and dissipated.

“The pegasi, mighty warriors of the wind and skies.”

Now a jet of blue streaked from the circle, flying all around the room, bouncing to and fro upon clouds of pure, sweet-tasting smoke conjured in a swirl from the fire. The vision of the pegasus came to a halt right above a thin pillar of slow-burning flame, stood where all could see without ever touching the ground, and bowed. Mysteriously, the clatter of armor resounded softly throughout the hall, its source wholly opaque.

“Finally, the earthponies. You,” said Lilja, and this time around, she gazed upon them all, beaming with pride and affection, “hardy workers, caretakers of the land and all life within it.”

A robust earthpony emerged, the motes that composed the vision turning green in colour, carrying a rake over their shoulder. They tilted their head, politely and maybe inquiringly, as a forest sprouted all around their tall-standing figure. As a display, it was low-key compared to that which had come before, yet Galatea silently took stock of the crowd, and saw that several of the adults in the group were nodding along.

“So long as the three act in concert,” said Lilja, her voice carried by the wind, though the door to the longhall was shut and the upstairs windows now barred for the evening, “as the three tribes tendeto their domains, provide care for one another, then balance shall be kept. But for far too long in our times, it had not, and malice and bitterness took hold of many hearts.”

Anger, jealousy, bitter fighting. The three visions scattered in the aftermath of battle.

Here Galatea drew a sharp breath. She had witnessed this before. Saw how the land suffered. This she had concluded to be a deep wrong. And yet she had wondered if she denied what centuries had shown her eyes. Life, struggling, in conflict with itself. Her Mother’s gifts granting her that she be shielded from most of what she’d seen that creatures feared – starvation, predation, disease and death. But gifts that had made her alone in this. 

Lilja took a deep breath, then blew apart the motes gathered in the air, as if they’d never been.

“They fled the endless Winter much as they fled one another,” the doe whispered, as suddently the flames turned blue, a pale blue which cast no heat. Spirits of ice and snow emerged from what the fire had become, their jaws opened wide in mute shrieks and screams. “And still the three tribes’ leaders refused to yield to one another.”

Six ponies emerged from the circle, two from each of the tribes. Three of these visibly argued with one another, even as their companions cried out with no voice, mute as the malign spirits which swhirled ominously above, unseen. The companions still sought desperately to the belligerent three of an approaching danger. But it was to no avail, for soon they were frozen, until only the three companions remained, huddled together.

The room had fallen silent by now. Lilja twirled her forehooves, drawing from a cluster of glittering motes up high.

“But in this hour, there came providence. Within that cave, the fire of friendship grew bright from one single spark,” said Lilja. Before their eyes, a pillar of light, shining bright from the three faithful companions, hurtled against the alarmed spirits and along with it, the audience saw, the fire returned from a cool blue to hot, crackling orange. “And in that cave… they appeared.”

Two foals, holding one another, fast asleep. One, the larger of the two, with their coat of white, shined warm as the rising Sun, the very Sun her flank was marked with. The other glowed a tranquil midnight blue, a bright Moon upon her flank. The three ponies of stardust watched on in awe. And so did the assembly, too enraptured to speak.

But it was their forms that struck Galatea the most. A pair of wings and a single horn on each. Two ponies, bearing wings and a horn at once, wholly marked from their birth, like no other..

Save for one.

“Two sisters. Sun and Moon. Celestia and Luna, as named by the Allfather,” Lilja said, her smile the warmest it had ever been. “Blessings of Harmony, given to us unto this realm. Two sisters that carry within them the magic of all the three tribes, to guide the celestial bodies above, when they come of age. In our northern land, they reside still, until their time is here, and under the guidance and protection of us all shall they blossom.”

Galatea had scarcely heard her, for her eyes remain fixed upon the vision of these two ethereally glowing figures. Her body gone rigid, her breath held longer than it should. Until the two foals faded into the empty air around them. She silently begged them not to go, holding her gaze as long as she could on where they’d been. But the light of the longhall’s fires returned as one, and the afterimage was dispelled from Galatea’s sight, just one more memory in her treasury, perfectly preserved in form yet unreachable to the touch.

It was amidst the villages’ clapping that Galatea heard herself speak aloud. Too loud, for her.

“How do you know so much?” she demanded, barely aware that Broadleaf and Birdsong were looking startled by her voice. “How can you speak of them with such familiarity?”

Lilja let out a hearty laugh. “I beheld them with my own eyes, a week or so after they were born! I had been sent to find them, to carry them to our land in the North. Beneath the light and the blessings of the Aurora, I saw two wonderful children fated to rank as the best of us.”

She stood to her tallest height, head held up beatifically, eyes twinkling with wonder, like stars in unclouded skies.

“In time” said Lilja, triumph laced within her words, “you shall see them rise as the protectors of the realms, above and below, from one horizon to the other.”

She was greeted by the cheers of many, the rapturous sounds of celebration and joy.

None, however, paid notice to the quiet watchmare among them, pondering the names like no name in this village, as the snow continued to fall outside the  longhall.


* * * * *


Little else did Lija do for the next two days, other than continue using the longhall as her haunt. Or, at least, this was the impression Galatea reached. If it hadn’t been for Broadleaf reminding her on the third morning, she’d have missed Lilja’s departure that afternoon entirely. Warm goodbyes were exchanged beneath the sunshine, Lilja giving them all her blessing one last time. With a spring in her step, the doe soared above, the laughter of the children following her on her resumed travels as she awarded them a final shower of glitter, gleaming in the Sun.

One by one, the villagers returned to this quiet interval of their lives, their hearts warmed, carrying only the not trivial regret that some had not lived to see the traveller from the North. For one short while, too short although it stayed with them forevermore, Winter had ceased to mean a period of hard-learned patience and survival, a reminder of the darkest time in their people’s brief history.

An ultimate promise on the doe’s lips, peculiar to hear, and yet bearing the ring of truth, had been that in times to come, the Winter itself would be a domain of ponies’ nurture, just as the land was in the fertile months to the earthponies.

The doe became but a distant mark in the skies, like the wind that still blew above the treeline, their shelter against the worst of its bite at this time of year. Only Galatea remained outside in the snow, her eyes fixed on the North long after Lilja had disappeared from sight. Her thoughts, ordinarily so purposeful and orderly, were awash with a mad scramble of images. The Northern land of Adlaborn. Steadily ticking clocks. Two strange little foals.

As Winter continued, though Spring lay around the corner, these became all she could think of. 
From then on, Galatea’s stay in the hamlet faded into a blur that had nothing to do with routine. By day, or by night. Two sisters, Sun and Moon, bearing wings and a horn, marked by the celestial bodies they were meant to ferry across the heavens. Two names that echoed throughout her mind, alluring her so very much. Celestia and Luna.

Her work around the hamlet grew slower, she slept longer hours, and as she turned away all offers of assistance, she felt her companions’ eyes upon her, as her daydreams carried on. None, not Bright Hearth, not little Birdsong, nor even Broadleaf, could pry answers out of her.

Who were the two children? Who had their parents been? The questions lingered, tempting her with answers that lay beyond this dwelling of hers. This home. All that Galatea could ascertain was that she was no longer alone, in this realm. Never again would she look up, wondering if this was her burden and solely her burden to bear, or if there were others like her.

The Spring thaw brought with it a rejuvenated land. Lilja’s gifts had endured for all who had received them. Amidst the Spring bloom, when she could no longer ignore her curiosity, Galatea went to see the only pony she truly trusted, and told him what he needed to know.


* * * * *


“Leaving?”

Broadleaf’s eyes widened, and he paused in his chiselling. Galatea winced, slightly. The surprise in his tone prompted her to wonder if perhaps she had miscalculated. But there was no turning back now.

Galatea drew a deep breath. She found it difficult to meet him, eye to eye. Yet she managed, and pressed on.

“Yes,” said Galatea, keeping her voice even, “I am leaving. The Spring thaw is here, and the roads up North should be safe to traverse.”

Her companion rubbed the back of his head. “But, I don’t understand. Why? What’s happened? Are you alright?”

The three questions she hoped that he wouldn’t ask, so it would seem, were precisely the ones he had to asked. Galatea bit her lips. It wasn’t so easy after all.

“Broadleaf, it’s… I… I must see them,” she whispered, pawing at the straw-covered floor of his little cottage. Their cottage, she almost thought of it as. For though the mountain nook continued to be her place of rest, her time spent in here with him had left its mark.  “The two sisters whom Lilja spoke of.”

When Broadleaf looked no less confused than prior, Galatea shook her head. “There are answers I seek. And… and I’m sorry, but I cannot tell why, as of yet. I just… I know I must see them.”

Broadleaf stood to his full height, meeting Galatea’s eyes. Warm and so very kind, yet Galatea realised she could not bear to look into them for long.

“I don’t understand. Don’t you… weren’t you happy here?” he inquired, his voice gentle and soft, tinged with growing sorrow. Why did he have to make it so very difficult? So many questions passed her mind now.

Now, however, upon sighting the crestfallen look of her companion, she spoke up at last.

“I was, and I am,” said Galatea. “And… and I shall endeavour to return. I promise.”

Another pause. The weight of her words started to press down on her. In the silence, her ears caught a distinct ticking sound, and this was her excuse to glance away, momentarily. The clock from Lilja’s passage stood on the crude strone mantelpiece of Broadleaf’s cottage. Since the time when the doe had departed, Galatea had never asked what he’d picked for a gift. She’d assumed he would choose the chisel.

But the chisel he’d been using to hew a cairn-rock was old. Never had she expected that he would bring the clock home with him.

“I’ll miss you,” whispered Broadleaf Heart. “More than anything.”

“Then come with me,” Galatea said. Her forehoof reached out for Broadleaf’s. “Come with me to the North. We’d have so much to see. And… and don’t you want to hear mine story?”

Something passed behind her companion’s eyes. Perhaps a flash of wonder, or longing. In all five years they’ve known one another, she had not told him her story, nor did he tell his. Yet the moment passed just as it appeared.

“No… no,” said Broadleaf. Galatea felt her shoulders sink. “Much as I want to join your side, my place is here, Galena. I cannot turn away, not when they still need me.”

Galatea opened her mouth to retort, but found no words that came to mind. Then Broadleaf turned his gaze away, and for but a moment, Galatea wondered if she had misspoken.

“Birdsong!” he called out. “It’s time.”

Soft hooves tapped against the door, breaking her attention. Galatea blinked at the sight of Birdsong as she came scurrying in. Perhaps she had been waiting outside. On her back, she brought with her cloth. But it was no ordinary cloth, Galatea saw, as the little weaver now stood on her hindlegs, holding the cloak in her mouth. 

Wordlessly, Galatea took it from her. Finely-woven, yet resilient, she could tell, of a dark, pleasantly loamy brown shade that reminded Galatea much of this little hamlet. The thread was unexpectedly smooth to the touch, but the fine quality of the thread belied its true purpose.

A travelling cloak.

“Master Broadleaf asked me to help weave it,” said Birdsong, the nervous tap of her forehooves muffled by the straw of the floor. “The Reindeer lady had some nice threads. I hope you like it.”

Galatea knelt down to pat the girl, gently and yet to her, painful somehow. “You’ve grown, Little Bird,” she whispered, admiring the woven cloak. It brought a smile to Birdsong, and that was enough.

Standing up, she turned to Broadleaf. He wore a tiny smile.

“A gift, my friend. You picked none. Yet a nomad like you,” the stallion said quietly, “deserves a cloak as hardy and elegant as she is.”

Galatea said nothing to that, her hindlegs frozen in place while a forehoof held the cloak up, to the dim light of the door. Then, very delicately, she set it down and closed the distance between them, unmindful of Birdsong’s presence, giving her companion a long, warm nuzzle.

“Thank you.”


* * * * *


The day of Galatea’s departure was a quiet one. There was little she carried with her, only provisions for a few weeks’ worth. She’d assured the villagers, though, that she was experienced in scrounging for nourishment in the vast wilderness beyond their borders. She had come to them living that life, and now she returned to it.

Upon her insistence, only a few villagers went to see her off. That did not stop any from waving goodbye as she passed them by, each and every single one whom she’d met through the seasons, from Midsummer and Evening in their bew cottage, to Green Pines at his farm, all of them…

Wrapped in her new travelling cloak, Galatea paused at the hamlet’s borders, turning around to meet those who had come this far with her. Bright Hearth, spry in her twilight years, insisted on her presence, despite Midsummer’s protests, beaming like a mare many years younger. Birdsong, following her as she so often did, eyes full of wonder and curiosity.

And, of course, ever reliable, ever trustworthy, Broadleaf Heart. He stood there, flanked by the other two villagers, his proud smile still there, as Bright Hearth and Birdsong said goodbye. Bright Hearth had a few words of wisdom, and though Galatea knew to keep herself sharp, she nonetheless appreciated the advice. To the village matriarch, she must have looked so young. Then, little Birdsong, mumbled an apology for her carelessness leading to Broadleaf’s injury, so long ago it seemed, at which Galatea merely nodded and ruffled her mane.

But Broadleaf’s words were not what she expected.

“Won’t you stay for one last night, Galena?” Different in words, there was no doubt left of what they– he wished for.

“You know I cannot,” said Galatea, shaking her head. “And… I am sorry for that.”

Broadleaf nodded. He moved closer to her, smiling.

"Will you return?" he asked, a repeat of the very same question from a few nights ago. This time, Galatea’s answer came quickly.

"I will," said Galatea. A moment’s pause. “And... I will stay, once I do, Broadleaf. We’ll have stories to share when I come back.”

“That we will. Then, fair maiden,” said Broadleaf, warmth emanating from his voice, his smile only widening.. He reached out, and held her forehoof in his. “I will wait for you."

“I shall return,” Galatea replied, feeling her hooves stiffen. “I promise.”

There wasn’t much else she could say. Her throat ran dry. Her hooves stiffened further. It was now or never.

She let go of Broadleaf, with a gentle, longing smile to answer for his.

It was when she was to cross the forest’s edge that she did look back, to behold the tiny hamlet with her eyes, and the three ponies that stood there, waving at her, their remaining well-wishes unspoken yet heartfelt. Perhaps a part of her wanted to say something then. Perhaps he wanted to as well. But she steeled her resolve. Away in the North, there awaited the two who may be the only ones who could know her, truly, as she was.

Tightening the cloak around her body, Galatea turned away from the first place she’d found to call home, and disappeared into the forest.



> V ~ The Sun and Moon
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


V



The Sun and Moon





Galatea’s travels to the North were to be neither short nor easy. Strange, it all felt, to venture beyond the forested realm she had called her home for so long. But once she left the forests and crossed the plains, it became abundantly clear to her that a change had come over this land. For where there was once war and death and famine, peace had come, a renewed blessing upon all.

The Three Tribes, just as Lilja announced, had come together. War-torn lands were rebuilt with their collective effort, from the once-burnt fields to ruined cities, all flourished under their guidance. Pegasi guards on patrol stood with earthpony farmers toiling the fields, while unicorn mages in their castles tinkered away with their spells, all working in concert to ensure that no other Winter should be as deadly as the one before.

They had a long way to go, Galatea could tell, in mastering the weather and the land upon which they lived and toiled, but it was steady progress. So as the seasons went by, did the land change. More hamlets and villages sprung up. Trade began to flourish. And all around, peace reigned. That was good, Galatea concluded. It smoothed her travels. Throughout, she mingled amongst her mortal kindred, moving between the shadows, yet always watching.

Now, however, though she was far away from the hamlet, she found herself in the form of an earthpony more often than not. At first, she chalked it up to convenience. Expending her magic to shift forms, day and night, could be so costly to her health.

As time went by, each second its own eternity, she found it preferable. Where once it had been mere convenience, her disguise became comfort, even as it necessitated longer travel times, with the skies closed to her. She could be closer to the ponies now, observing their livelihoods, much like she’d lived with Broadleaf Heart and his fellow villagers.

She grew bolder still. Where once she’d foraged for food, scouring the forest floor for whatever was edible to her delicate earthpony palate, she now emerged closer to villages and small towns, blending in with all the others as if she’d always belonged.

She would even offer her trade, honed by what she’d learned in the hamlet, going from town to town providing service to those who required it, whether it be moving stone and timber to raise the walls, or labour down at the farmlands. It was here that Galatea saw that where her hamlet had traded by barter, now valuable metals were given in exchange for goods and services.

Currency, it was called. And currency, she would learn, made this brave new world turn, just as the Sun and Moon turned around the world.

But where the landowners and lords of the Three Tribes benefitted from the labour of all, and the merchants and artisans lived well enough, the peasantry earned the least, and a drifter perhaps even less. Field work gave her meager pay, just about what she needed to live without foraging for food. Yet when she did have excess wealth in her possession, no matter how scant, there was always someone amongst her fellow labourers who needed it more than she.

For she was Galatea, and she was an alicorn. This much, she’d always known.

It felt hollow, at times. No matter how she’d like to pretend otherwise, the needs of the mortals were constant, just as she remained unchanging beneath this facade. Yet so often did she behold their faces light up when she gave them fair share, that it made all the difference.

And as ever, once she felt that she’d seen and experienced all she needed, Galatea continued on her way, all the way to the Frozen North, and the land of Adlaborn.


* * * * *


The land of the Reindeer was unlike any Galatea had ever seen before.

Nested deep within the mountains and valleys that lay beyond the tundra, the journey there was not for the faint-hearted. Yet even in these harsh conditions, Adlaborn’s gates remained open to all who wished to visit its hallowed halls, to take refuge within their walls, those who sought comfort away from the troubles that plagued their thoughts.

So Galatea went with them, one of many pilgrims venturing North. Plenty had their own reasons. One wished to see the land with his own eyes. Another wished to learn from the artisans. Some, naturally, merely wished to bed a Reindeer.

Many turned away before they could even glimpse the mountains. Many still persisted, such as Galatea herself, bracing against the cold winds with her dear cloak. In this harsh weather, the Reindeer thread it was spooled from proved as well-suited as it ought be, bringing warmth to her whereas others shivered. Earthpony that she was on the outside, for once she allowed herself this small selfishness. Rarely did any die from the cold upon this road now, it was said.

Those who travelled onward, in time, came upon the pine forest. Here, a set few markers with the ever-present sigil of the snowflake upon them informed Galatea and others in her party that they had crossed the threshold, into the domain of the Reindeer. The trees stood tall and imposing, looming over the procession. Yet the lone Reindeer guide who emerged from the forest brought comfort and guidance, and so they went on, down the winding path.

At the path’s end was a wall. Not a wall of stones or rocks or mortar, but a wall of flora, hedgerows with mighty branches intertwined with thick, impenetrable leaves. Carved upon the branches were mysterious symbols that glowed a deep blue.

Before their mystified eyes,  the silent stag who had guided them pressed upon the snowflake mark etched so prominently in the wood, and stepped back. The wood parted like water, rustling leaves and retreating wood revealing an entrance.

Past the gates, at the head of the group, Galatea beheld the hidden city Lilja had spoken of. And it was beautiful.

Little remained of the permafrost of the tundra, or moss that covered the land beyond the wall. Rolling green hills and cobbled roads greeted the procession. The scent of freshly baked bread permeated the air, and warmth emanated from all around, from the very air to the path beneath their hooves. It was not difficult to imagine warm hearths within each of these homes.

Homes that, as Galatea passed them by, struck her in appearance. They were very much unlike any mossy hut or stone cottage or even mighty castle that she’d seen in her travels. Had she not taken a second glance, she would have mistaken them for very old, very intricate trees, were it not for the glowing gems of many colours hung from branches and vines all around them. For where ponykind built their homes from what had been provided to them, these were homes grown and nurtured, from what must have been tiny saplings like those of forests so long ago. 

The people, too, shone, in many ways. There was little to be seen of the hardships from beyond their walls. The Reindeer kept to themselves, hushed whispers, with only the occasional laughter of children playing amongst the bushes and the trees. But a few glances Galatea risked towards the open windows, and she felt warmth upon sighting families sharing a quiet dinner, or couples sharing a moment before the open fireplace.

It was a welcome warmth. A warmth they shared with all, Galatea observed. Lilja’s generosity had not been an exception. Of the travelers in her party, from the poor to the grief-stricken, all were welcome, taken into homes of their own. A few offered money, yet this was turned away, whether it be for food or shelter. The Reindeer asked for little, yet provided much, just like the gifts Lilja had brought to the hamlet. And when Galatea asked a passing stag however long they could stay, his answer was succinct and welcome;

“As long as they need to.”

Before long, the crowd she’d travelled with had dissipated, whether it be to feast or to rest. Whatever their goals were, whatever they sought, some had found them, while others forgot. All were welcome here, even those who weren’t of the purest intent, and Galatea found she had little to blame them for. Soon, only Galatea remained, observing.

It was here that, though tempted to mingle with the Reindeer and to join with the others and seek her own shelter, Galatea parted from them, sneaking away from the ponies’ awestruck eyes, out towards the towering castle in the distance.

Wherever the children might be, surely, it had to be where the Reindeer King resided. With only but little hesitation, Galatea set out to the tallest, northernmost peak in all the Great Continent.


* * * * *


Climbing the mountain was trivial. Maybe the strength of her legwork even gave her satisfaction that flight would have not. The Sun had not yet set by the time Galatea arrived at the walls, beholding its imposing might. Pausing a while to gaze down below, Galatea saw the land of Adlaborn, a vast expanse of rolling hills and forest groves. The glow from its greatest city, Vologda, shone bright even in the fading light of the evening. And as she returned to contemplate the castle, she saw it was not quite the true peak of the mountain. A little ways farther above the castle’s tallest parapet, the ascent of the rock continued, ending at last in a plateau atop of which she just made out the faint silhouette of a solitary cloud-pine.

But as it was the castle which held her interest, she poised herself to scale the walls. Or she would have done, had she not noticed a small wooden door, off to the side.

This was convenient. She turned to inspect it. The snowflake mark was etched upon the door. But before she could even begin to figure out how to unlatch it with whatever hidden mechanism it contained, Galatea brushed a hoof against the door, brushing away snow. The sigil lit up with a brilliant blue, and the lock turned.

The ease by which she’d opened this back-door actually took her aback. Yes, was this not the land of the givers? But she had chosen not to hail what doorkeeper may await at the castle gates. She came here furtively, as a thief would in the night. To pretend otherwise would be falsehood.

A saying she’d once heard, most fleetingly passing from between the lips of the matriarch Bright Hearth, that one time the collectors of their hamlet’s faraway liege had come requesting tribute, now crossed Galatea’s mind.

‘Every great house has a servant’s entrance.’

But this could not align with the Reindeer as she had seen them. For whom, then, was this door? A door which let her enter as easily as into a windmill. On this instance of that afternoon, it took Galatea what seemed the longest time to reach a conclusion, though it must have taken no longer than a minute. This door was for her. Or those like her.

Still wondering what that meant, Galatea crossed the doorway, and into the castle.

She hadn’t been inside any castles before, so there was little she could do to compare. The imposing, rock-hewn facade had been just that, a facade. Past its walls, the interior was much like the longhall of the hamlet, warm and comforting, with tapestries hanging and soft carpet rolled across the stony floor. Candles all around illuminated the hallway she later entered under an orange glow.

Now, to find the children. Galatea’s eyes darted left and right, searching, seeking any clue that they’d been here...

There. In the air, just off to the side, a very fine trail of stardust.

Where before she’d only perceived the golden, ethereal motes here and there, always in the corner of her eye, here it practically sparkled, if she just tried hard enough to see. All living beings left it in their trails, but those who’d been gifted with reason and craft were those imbued in it and who exuded it twice over. Especially the Reindeer, being the ones most attuned. 

A Scribe, Mother had once called her. Lilja, too, and the stag guide, had left such trails. But Galatea had reason to believe this particular trail was a mere trickle in a river. In her hamlet, the children were so very fond of Lilja’s talent. What was to say these two sisters weren’t, as well?

Taking a long, deep breath, Galatea followed the trail, at a trot. She almost broke into full gallop. Best to remain careful. Yet nothing else mattered to her then and there, nothing else but the notion that she would no longer be alone.

Following the trail, through winding halls and room after room, Galatea arrived at a garden.


* * * * *


It was a strange, wonderful little garden. Were it not for the lights hung from branches, shimmering with a brilliant glow of a pale blue, or the snowflake marks once every few pine trees, it would have seemed to Galatea a grove like any other. Yet here, the air was permeated with stardust, more than anywhere. So she continued on her way, careful not to disturb the wild, but tidily lean grass with her steps. She followed a small cobbled path, small and out of the way, weaving around the trees. Above, the afternoon Sun cast a dim orange light through the clouds.

A good few moments after she first arrived, Galatea paused where she stood, just at the treeline. Hidden by a few pine branches, she stood in silence, her gaze falling upon the only other ponies in this secluded garden.

There were two of them, just as Lilja had described.

One with a coat and feathers of alabaster, beautiful as the morning snow, her free-flowing mane a pleasant pink. Ten years young, Galatea estimated. The other, smaller one was a pale blue, of a lighter shade in her mane. Five, perhaps. They were playing, with one another, tumbling in the grass, the white one laughing as she ran circles ’round her sister.

Upon their flanks, Galatea saw their marks. The Sun for the elder, and the Moon for the younger.

“You can’t catch me, can’t catch me!” the older one yelled, in a sing-song voice. Her baby sister, little wings fluttering in a futile attempt to follow, could do nothing but sit down on the grass, her little black bow ajar.

“No fair!” she exclaimed. “Tia!”

“Aw, you’re no fun,” said Celestia, though her smile betrayed her underlying cheer. She sat down on the grass, letting Luna approach her in a wobbly little walk. Her little sister tripped onto the grass, prompting a guffaw from her.

Their laughter continued, filling the ambience of this sanctuary. High-pitched, childish, yet… It was beautiful, to Galatea’s ears.

Now Luna stood, with a determined frown. Her horn shot out tiny sparks. Not very stellar. They fell upon the grass with nary a crackle.

Celestia shook her head, giggling. She hopped onto her hooves, flicking her mane, and then pointed her horn at Luna, lighting up with a brilliant glow. 

“Watch this,” she said. 

Before Galatea could shout and step forth from the treeline, Celestia fired off a spell.

A trail of golden light and dust shot out, sparks landing harmlessly upon the grass. It danced around Luna, drawing her awestruck eyes upon it, before it shot up into the air and exploded into a shower of shimmering glitter.

Luna burst into giggles. Celestia smirked.

“See?” she said, smug as a ten-year old could be. “Maybe if you practice, you can do it–” 

“Celestia!” a tired, weary voice called out. “What did I tell you about casting spells around your sister?”

“Aww, but Firefly, you saw that!” Celestia protested, just as the elderly mare emerged into view. The pegasus mare looked older than even Bright Hearth, her coat so faded one could scarcely tell it might once have been pink, yet her purple eyes still looked just as sharp as Broadleaf’s. “She liked it!”

“Da!” Luna answered, nodding vigorously. But this had little effect on the mare – Firefly – who promptly shook her head.

“You know very well what I mean, young lady,” chided Firefly. “Now come along, Starswirl and Sint are waiting for you,”

“Do I really have to go now?” Celestia bemoaned.

“You seemed so proud of your spells a moment ago,” Firefly retorted, smiling. She hoisted Luna onto her back, with good care. “But if you want, I could let you practice for just a few more–”

“Alright!” Celestia interrupted. “So I will.” 

She pointed her horn up, and fired off another spell, much like one earlier, showering them all in golden dust once more, amidst Luna’s cheers and Celestia’s laughter. 
 
Still hidden beneath the shade, Galatea’s mind was racing, Her heart thumped and thumped, her breathing ran shallow, a chill running down her spine.

They had family here. They were taken care of.

Above all, they were happy.

But they were leaving. Firefly and Luna were heading off into the ornate foliage of the grove, escorted by Celestia at a steady trot. It was now or never.

Just as Galatea moved a hoof forward, to cross the treeline and introduce herself to the trio, a voice sounded in her mind.

‘Stop.’

A simple command, uttered with a reverb so distant and yet close all at once that Galatea could not tell who had uttered it.

It did its work. She froze where she stood, unsure if she should move.

‘Do not interfere.’

Interfere?

… Was that what she was doing?

It couldn’t have been. She was here, here as close as she could be to the two ponies she was closest to. Two ponies who may, at last, give her all that she needed.

‘Their path is not yours, Galatea. Remain where you are.’

They were family.

She was here. She had to see them.

She needed to see them.

“No… no, no,” Galatea whispered, her breathing growing shallower by the second. “Please just… just let me–” 

‘Stop.’

The voice was harsher now. Mother had never been so unkind before.

‘Remain where you are. Follow your command.’

“Hello?”

The soft voice of Celestia cut in. Galatea’s eyes snapped open. There, the little white foal’s eyes were glancing in her direction, her head tilted. Galatea held her breath.

“Is… is someone there?”

Celestia couldn’t see her here. The shade of the pine trees and bushes kept her covered. She wanted to say something. Had to say something. Call upon the little alicorn.

But who was she to do this. She was a stranger to her. Nothing more. She had found herself in that old forest again, watching a little bird.

Nothing more than a shadow.

Holding back her tears, Galatea turned and ran from the only ones she could call family.


* * * * *


The howling wind blew past Galatea, threatening to dislodge her off the mountainside. No orderly and inviting roadway guided her steps here, on the far side. It was solely to the nimble tread of her hooves, the hooves of an earthpony, that she entrusted each step would not send her tumbling, should a ledge prove treacherous. No wings or horn were there to lift her up. She did not care, she could not care. Nothing else lay in her mind. Her downward climb went on, against the harsh gusts that clawed at her face, billowing her cape in her wake. She did not look back, nor did she falter. Her eyes felt warm and cold. Her steps, heavier by the second.

She knew not how long her descent lasted. Only that once the wind subsided, and the weight of everything which bore down on her became too much, she did halt, halfway from the peak of this moutain. And she saw she’d come to a clearing upon a friendly slope in the mountsaide. A winding path led farther in, ornamented by hanging lanterns every dozen paces to light the way.

The weather was clear this far up, even halfway. The setting Sun cast a warm light over her. Soon, once it had set, the Northern Lights would come to join the Moon. Yet all thoughts of comfort were burnt away, buried, torn asunder. She panted, restlessly pacing back and forth.

Until she willed her breath to slow, laying on the cold ground while she let her thoughts settle. But all coalesced into the single one which denied her mind its peace.

‘It’s not fair.’

Nothing. No one to answer her, but the wind. Galatea shook her head, with gritted teeth. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear at herself. She wanted to stomp and shatter the very mountain at her back.

All that came out was a whisper, close to a whimper.

“It’s… it’s not fair. It’s not fair...”

A mere echo, carried by the breeze, disappearing into the ether. A pitiful unheard noise, as she would ever be. Nothing came of it, nothing but her heavy breathing, and her own sobbing, to break the dreary silence. She lay there for some time, with only the wind and snow for company. The cold had never bit her as hard as it did now, the crushing weight bearing down on her, hundreds and hundreds of years’ worth of it…

She knew not how long she lay there, alone, till she heard the air stir behind her. Wiping away at tears frozen upon her cheek, Galatea sat up straight, ready to meet this intruder.

“Oh, good evening.”

Galatea had heard that voice before. Wizened, weary, yet with a touch of spryness. When she turned to meet her, a moment’s glimpse was all she needed to ascertain the mare’s identity.

“Why… why have you come here?” Galatea asked aloud.

Too loud, perhaps. It echoed on until it faded with the wind. Yet the mare opposite her said nothing to that.

Firefly was old, that much Galatea could tell. Beneath the warm cloak she wore, the pink in her coat had faded, as had her mane, styled in a proper bun that belied what must once have been unruly Iris blue. Her aged wings were held tucked against her body. The wrinkles around her eyes ran deep. But her eyes, kind and compassionate and still a shocking purple, held a sharp look within them, coupled with her gentle smile.

“I thought I might find you here,” said Firefly, hobbling closer, leaning on her cane. Galatea winced yet remained rooted to her spot. “You gave the little ones quite the fright.”

“I… I am sorry,” Galatea said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Firefly chuckled. “Adlaborn’s gates are open to those who need it to be, my friend, and I have lived long enough to see and guide many who wish to seek clarity, here atop the world,” she said, her words slow and steady. “But the foals. Do you know them?”

Galatea drew her breath, tearing her gaze away from the other mare.

“I wish that I did,” she lamented, her forehooves tapping onto the ground in a steady rhythm. “I wish that… I wish that I knew them all my life. Yet it is not part of mine purpose to do so. It never has been, nor will it ever be.”

Silence followed. But there were no fading hoofsteps to punctuate it. Behind her, Galatea heard the ancient mare approach, closing the distance, till she stood by her. Ever so gently, Firefly set herself down, though a gap remained between them.

“Few can so easily wander through Zamok Ustyag, the castle of Sint Erklass,” said Firefly. “Only those whom it sees as kin, and those that are invited, may pass. And… what brings a stranger from a faraway hamlet all this way?”

Galatea’s heart skipped a beat. Firefly let out a soft chuckle.

“Lilja spoke of you,” she said. “The curious one amongst the villagers. Sharp-eyed, so strong in body and spirit, and yet alike to one who wears a coat she’s still growing into… You asked about little Celestia and Luna as well.”

Feeling her eyes well up once more, Galatea glared at her.

“What use are her words, when I am, and shall remain a stranger? I could be that villager, or I could be anyone else. It changes nothing. The foals are here, with those they can call family, while I–” The words flowed out in a stream, before she could stop. She sighed. “I am sorry. I did not mean to…”

Yet Firefly did not flinch, nor did she seem afraid.

“Perhaps you are a stranger. And I agree. It changes nothing.” She placed a decrepit wing over Galatea, ever so gently. “Because I see here yet another soul in need of aid. Please, if you would let me know?”

Galatea stiffened, but did not move. She looked down at the thin layer of snow beneath her.

“For the longest time,” Galatea began, feeling her worries ebb and flow, “I thought I was alone. That this burden shall always be mine to carry. That I alone shall watch.” She hesitated. No soul other than Broadleaf ought to know. Yet Firefly had offered her nothing but kindness, and lent her an ear, and so she went on. “But now I learn that I was not alone. That I have…”

The words danced at the tip of her tongue. It seemed strange then, to think that she had never been, and yet was, alone. Her eyes drifted towards her forehoof, chipped and cracked. For a passing moment, she imagined it whole and pristine, as she was in that old forest.

She pressed on.

“... That I have family. I know they are mine, if not in blood then in spirit. I know that… I know that they came when they were needed. I know that in time, they shall lead. Now I look upon them and I wonder, I wonder if…”

‘If they need me,’ Galatea finished, though she did not say it aloud.

But something must have caught Firefly’s eye.

“Do you wish to let them know?” said Firefly. “Their grandfather– well, adoptive grandfather– he does wonder if they have family, outside of this realm. He was friends with… I suppose you might call her their mother…”

Galatea’s head snapped up.

“Their mother? The Guardian of Joy… He knew her?”

“So he told me,” Firefly nodded. “Not that I saw for myself. I may be old, have seen things which to ponies of this new era are but a legend, yet even I am not that old. But this is not about me. My time shall not be long now, and the coming world belongs to the young.”

Be it knowingly, or by happenstance, there was something in those words which sounded recognisable to Galatea. And it did not take her long to remember why. From the recesses of her perfect memory, echoing, a farewell spoken before her eyes even saw the world… 

“Good night, my little ones. When you awaken, the world will await you, and you in turn shall make it better. Now rest well. Dream of sweet things to come. And most of all, be brave.”

Such sadness, but such kindness, such hope, too. Such love.

… How could the one who’d said these words, a friend of the Guardian of Joy, deny her what might have been her greatest happiness?

“Did he know about me?” Galatea whispered, but so that Firefly heard her. “If he knew our mother, if now he looks after these fillies, then what of me?”

For one moment there, unease flashed in Firefly’s eye. “I’ve… I’ve no idea,” she said. “He only ever foretold me that one day, when all three tribes had again proven themselves worthy of those tasks long ago entrusted to them, so would the world provide. Which it did. And I’m glad that I’ve lived to see it…”

She sighed, a wheezing croak that bespoke all her years.

“Then is this it?” Galatea asked, to the air. “Is this the first second of eternity?”

“I’m sorry?” said Firefly.

“What kind of a watcher am I,” Galatea said bitterly, talking more to herself, “when you have lived ages longer than mortal lifespan of most, and I never knew you. As I was there before you– made by Mother– I’ll be there after you. Even when my sisters are young, I am not.”

Firefly turned her gaze away, looking upon the Northern Lights above them.

“Look around you,” said Firefly. “What do you see?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Answer, please.”

Galatea gazed to where Firefly did, beholding the Northern Lights.

“Stardust,” she answered slowly. “The signature of magic, intimately wielded by the mages of the Reindeer, a field that permeates all, but– but its mysteries are not mine to explore. I merely keep record of all that I see, faithfully preserved within mine mind, like grain in a bag… many bags.”

“Heh, I wonder why you’d choose that analogy,” Firefly said. “But is it truly not yours to explore?” She lifted her cane, tracing it along the flow. The stardust followed, coalesced, and dissipated. “Stardust may be the realm of the Reindeer to weave, yet they do not control it. It is a stream that flows with you, welcomes you, for neither you nor the stream are controlled by the other.”

She pointed her cane towards the peak, and Galatea’s eyes followed. There it stood, the lone cloud-pine atop the world, illuminated by the ethereal glow of the Aurora in the dark heavens.

“This peak is where all magic in this world meets, from pole to pole, East to West,” said Firefly. “The dance of the Northern Lights is a riddle so many have sought to unlock. Few truly know how to uncover it. But perhaps, one needs only a keen eye…”

The Aurora continued its dance in the sky, now night-time. Firefly’s words trailed off, just as Galatea sat upon her haunches, eyes focused upon the trails of stardust that disappearing within the embrace of Aurora’s light.

She could feel it. The stardust around her. The ground beneath her. Parts of a greater whole.

Closing her eyes, Galatea reached out, weaving her aura with a strand that went by, following as it joined with all others.

And…


* * * * *


… Nothing.

Nothing for her eyes to see, to watch. An empty void, neither here nor there, and yet, everywhere.

Then, a light. Stardust poured from it, in all its minute particles. Every thought of a sapient mind, every act of creativity, every question asked, such was what kept the spark burning at the heart of every star, a lone candle’s light in the darkness of mere matter.

A million fireflies, it was akin to beholding. They spread around her.

… They danced, they congregated. And they built.

With each one that brushed her by, she felt a world in itself. She was the world.

The soft echo of a voice. Her voice. Joined innumerable times by others. All her. All speaking. Not in unison, yet each and every one of them unmistakably her.

A million Galateas, each one different yet alike. Whether they all stood at the spot she did now, she could not know. All she knew, then, was herself. Sights she had never seen. Sight she’d someday see. All a Galatea, each with her own triumphs and tribulations and woes and joys, carrying the fire.

But always at the heart of it all, Sun and Moon, and the Eye to join them, in laughter shared.


* * * * *


Galatea drew a gasp.

She was here, standing at the mountain. The Aurora’s dance continued. So much had been revealed to her. However, a question or two remained. She turned to the mare beside her, with furrowed brows.

Firefly was simply smiling still, her eyes a-twinkle.

“... How did you find me here?” Galatea said at last. “And… your wings, they’re so old, how… Forgive me, but…”

“The Reindeer shared a few of their secrets,” Firefly said merrily, patting her cane. “I’ve just introduced you to one. With it, there are other ways to travel the skies than upon the breath of the air… But I think it may not be coincidence we should meet here. Look.”

Again, she pointed with her cane, and Galatea’s gaze followed. A little further down the incline, there lay a small cottage, huddled against the slope. Its windows were darkened and its chimney blew no smoke, yet Galatea saw its thatched roof and walls were well-kept, as was a grove of pine trees that guarded the front door.

“This is where I’ve lived, these past centuries,” Firefly whispered. ““And it is where my eyes fell upon Celestia and Luna for the first time, when the granddaughters of Sint Erklass brought them to me.”

A feeling Galatea did not know entered her heart, and contemplating it, she realised it was envy.

She felt envious of Firefly. She could not hide this from herself. Yet alongside it was something else as well. Gladness. These were words of one who’d long awaited this day, and in them, she heard a feeling that until now, she’d believed only she could feel for the two fillies.

“What are they like, Firefly?” Galatea asked quietly. “Mine sisters. If I cannot see them at present, then at least tell me. Please… So that I may remember them, as they are now.”

The mare beside her laughed, jolly and spry, much like the mare she must have once been.

“Oh, dear. Where shall I begin? Celestia so often likes to steal desserts, moreso than her given share, no matter what her nannies tell her. Starswirl won’t know what sort of little monster he’ll soon teach. But I do say this in jest. She wishes to do good, aye, and she’ll try her best, even if she must learn to be less of a braggart.”

“And… and Luna?”

“Thinks the world of her sister, of course… if she isn’t tailing her, begging to be taught. A touch kinder, though I do so wish she wouldn’t take things so personally, nor try too hard. She’s too young to be disappointed by her own expectations.”

A soft sigh blew from between Galatea’s lips. Right then, she felt almost content.

“You choose to appear as an earthpony.” Smiled Firefly. “There has to be a reason for that. Those two fillies… Alicorns, the Reindeer call them, but I see a fair bit of unicorn in little Luna. She loves the stars, yet it scares her to fly up to touch them. Ah, if only these wings of mine were a hundred years younger, what I could teach her… Celestia, bless her, is the one who loves beating her wings, headstrong as we pegasi are said to be.”

“Our mother wrought cleverly…” Galatea said in a whisper.

“Yes,” Firefly said softly. “That’s what Sint Erklass said. She was a clever one, Sunflare.”

Galatea felt her head tilt, her ears licked by the falling snow. “Who, did you say?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” said Firefly, in a tone of gentle surprise. “And in all this time, I haven’t even asked after your name, for I felt that it was yours to choose to give… But this was your mother’s name, Watcher. She was Tau Sunflare.”

Sunflare, Sunflare, Sunflare.

The name echoed. Another fragment to keep. So many stories. So little time. Her duty would have to resume. One true, final question intrigued her.

“Who are you?” Galatea asked. “Who are you really, Firefly, to know so much?”

The mare before her chuckled. “My days have long since passed. Gone is that legendary era of Dream Valley and the Midnight Castle. And here I remain, to see off the next torchbearers until the time comes to join my friends. But you deserve this moment. I’ve lived my life, why should you not? You have lived a long life as is.”

“I have. Yet I do not know how much longer it shall take...”

Firefly considered her a long time, until she at last spoke anew. “Would you like Sint Erklass to know of your passage?”

This in turn, Galatea found she had to consider. Few other conclusions she’d reached, though they may have taken far longer in the span of the world, ever felt as if they had been this protracted, this cumbersome for her to reach.

But when her answer came, it was spoken in a clear voice.

“No.” Galatea shook her head, masking her regret. “No. I cannot burden him with that. It is mine responsibility. In time, I shall come to them, and…”

“And introduce yourself. Well, now,” said Firefly. with not a shred of condescension. She tapped her cane upon the snow-covered ground. “Enlighten me. Who do you think you are, Watcher?”

She said nothing, at first. But a warmth had come to her. It flowed through her, centered ’round her beating heart. She gave Firefly a glance, then drew a deep breath.

Galatea stood to her full height, and looked upon the enchanted land before the mountainside, that stretched far towards the horizon and beyond.

Thus she spoke, her voice firm as the mountain that stood beneath her.

“I am.”



> VI ~ The Artisan's Daughter
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


VI



The Artisan’s Daughter





In the centuries that had passed, little had changed of the cave. Few souls could have braved the harsh, icy winds that blew relentlessly against the mountainside. Or at least, that was how Galatea remembered it being. There she stood, at the ledge she had stood on so many years ago, her eyes looking back to where the cave had been long ago.

Her eyes met stone-cold rock, with little that could imply that centuries ago, she and her mother were ever here. Approaching the outcrop, trailing a forehoof on the primordial stone, and still nothing. No runes, no sigils, not a rock out of place.

She’d told Firefly a good few years ago now that she would return to the cave, to see where she had begun her duty, to see from where her mother had sent her out, bearing this burden of hers. Wherever Firefly was now, Galatea wished she could thank her, for the care given to her sisters, for what few words she’d dispense to a stranger in need.

Galatea turned away from where the cave had once been, and descended the mountainside without looking back once.


* * * * *


The journey home was, in the long run of her days, one with little of note.

As above, so below… With Adlaborn as her destination, Galatea had set off on this voyage in the hopes that at its end she would find a definitive resolution, a fulfillment of all those times spent cataloguing the world around her, this world she’d gradually come to feel closeness to yet never truly was a part of. To see two children grow, watch them learn as she had, be there for them as they were there for her. Not only would she have had so much to tell them, but in their being, she would have reached the truest of conclusions to hers, surely.

… As above, so below. She returned from the Land of Giving, spiritually perhaps a little wiser yet not fulfilled. But then this was a lesson she’d discovered was imparted to all by the Reindeer. Their gifts could only ever be the seed, never the harvest. For those who are given everything are those who’ll never ever stop wanting, and their wants shall devour them. She sought some comfort in knowing this, now at least she’d seen her sisters. They were well taken care of. She wanted to meet them, this hadn’t changed. Yet she’d come to them when they needed her most.

Thus Galatea returned to a world ruled by want. And it was much the same as on her way North. Those who wielded power only feared they should one day lose, and strove always for more. Many were content simply to live on a full belly, without greater purpose or spiritual curiosity. All the while, she moved amongst the same circles, of those who had the least and, by and large, wanted only what should be rightfully theirs. 

Yet there were changes on the horizon. As the doe Lilja had predicted, what once had been a trial of endurance slowly, very slowly, took on a touch of gentility in Winter. By the assorted knowledge and craft and labour of the Three Tribes, sharing of the burden of life had begun to ease it as well. New understanding of the world, and with it, new invention and ingenuity, cut a little and then a little more of the work to shoulder. It was only a matter that, someday, these means of production would be equitably distributed.

Thus she went South, taking stock of what she’d seen, earning her keep. She was in no hurry. Patience was always her greatest virtue. Besides, she had a clear goal, just as on her way up. No longer was Galatea waiting for the world. An end of the road waited for her.

And the day came indeed, that she at last trod upon familiar ground, by a familiar stream.

But it was when she reached the forest’s edge that she noticed something was different. The air had become dust-filled and smelled of burnt wood, the fields far larger than she remembered them being.

For there stood neither the hamlet, nor even a village. 


* * * * *


There stood a town. A quiet-looking place, but a town nonetheless.

Although an uneasiness had begun to creep into her, for she felt her heart skip a beat, Galatea still went on her way, taking in all the sights and sounds that passed her by. Where once there had been small paved roads, now those same roads were covered in cobblestones, such as the path that led her here. The fields remained, yet their expanse must have grown to cover three or four times the sizes she remembered, overlooked by a lumbering grain mill atop the hill to store all the harvest. Dwellings had changed from wood-and-stone cottages to larger stone houses, of which there were twice as many, each of which dwarfed the tiny cottages. 

And at one glance at the mountain that loomed above, Galatea’s farseeing eyes could distinguish the outlines of homes – no, the outline of a mining camp, hidden in the mists of early Autumn.

A mining town. Her fellow villagers had taken up the trade. A mineshaft was carved into the mountainside where her nook had once been. A moment’s pain passed her to see this. Where once she’d spent so much time, resting and carving away at the rock, now so many were doing the same. Not for shelter, nor a way to pass the time, but in order to obtain riches from within the heart of the mountain.

This could not be her concern at that very moment. She went on her way, pushing the somber feeling aside. She had Broadleaf to meet. As she had promised. So she went looking, taking care not to interfere with the town’s inhabitants. But the uneasiness did not leave her, as it became clear that she recognised not one of the town’s denizens, as they went on with day-to-day life. They were, to her chagrin, all of them strangers, passing by in a blur.

It was as the Sun had reached its highest point, with her having spotted neither hide nor hair of Broadleaf Heart, that Galatea broke away from the town’s streets and returned to the solitude of the neighbouring fields. She needed to sit, needed to rest, yet she shied to seek out the shade. So there she sat at the edge of the road, in the full glare of the Sun, by the last swaying stalks of barley yet to be brought in for harvest. Otherwise, all around her, the earth was all but bare.

She was not alone for long.

Two foals scampered out of the barley rows. One a sandy-brown colt, his mane and tail a curly mess of dark brown, the other a small filly the colour of moss, her equally frazzled mane a pleasant cherry-red. The filly wore a cloak, of a make that Galatea recognised, for it was akin to the very cloak she wore now.

“Where is he?” Galatea asked in an urgent whisper, wasting no time. The filly’s emerald-green eyes matched her brother, as she stared up at her.  Though there was a moment’s fear in them, they did not flee, and she was met by two curious stares instead. “Where is Broadleaf Heart?”

“Where is who?” the filly asked in return. Young, innocent, only in her fifth Winter, perhaps.

“Broadleaf Heart. He is one of your ilk… he is an earthpony,” Galatea stated, pawing the ground. “A great stallion, oak-brown in coat and mane, his eyes of warmest amber... his laugh, so boisterous that it’d brighten up anyone’s day... his mane, braided like no other’s.”

The filly’s older brother spoke up. 

“Broadleaf Heart? Oh, he was our oldest neighbour, miss! Always so kind and helpful. But he lived alone, though he needn’t have. He turned away all suitors, from what I’ve heard. He said he was waiting for the one.” 

Galatea stopped her pawing. The word echoed throughout.

‘Old…’

No.

It couldn’t have been true. It shouldn’t be. 

"Who was… the one?” Galatea asked, her voice cracked as pond ice. 

“A nomadic mare who left one day,” the colt answered, just as she expected. “He always said she would return." 

“She has!” Galatea interjected, leaving too short a pause before she pressed on. “Where is he then, child?”

The colt shook his head. By his side, his sister’s ears drooped.

“He has passed away, miss,” he explained, in a voice as gentle as a colt’s could be. “And we all mourned him so.”

That did not sound right. A lump rose to her throat. Her breathing grew shallow. The sinking feeling grew heavier in her stomach. It was absurd. It wasn’t possible, because Broadleaf Heart was waiting for her. 

He had to be. She’d promised him.

"That isn’t true,” Galatea replied in a hurry. Her head felt light, her voice shook. “You are… you’re mistaken. I remember him, and he is alive. He is content, helpful and… alive. He must be.” 

Again she pawed at the soft, tender soil, even while tightening her cloak around herself. It was not possible. She’d promised she would return. A promise she had fulfilled. Yet no words then that danced at the tip of Galatea’s tongue could fill the growing void.

Small, gentle hooves rubbed Galatea’s fetlocks. The filly had reached out to stroke her, as far as her little forelegs could reach. 

“You must have been my age when he was around,” the filly said, softly. “He’d be thankful.”

“And we are,” her brother added. “We remember him well, and to hear another does is nice.”

“Of course I remember him…” she said, shaking her head, blinking away tears. “If he had passed on as you claim… Show me then, child, where he rests.”


* * * * *


Waters, flowing cool and clear, now the Winter had newly released its icy grip. Risen to the zenith which marked the high point of its cycle, providing all the warmth it would on this day of Spring, the Sun’s light sparkled upon the waters’ surface. Early in the year as the day was, a subtle chill filled the air whenever the wind rose. But to the hamlet’s people, accustomed to hardship and glad to leave Winter behind them, this was mild discomfort, even refreshment in its own way.

Blessed was this Saturday, for the Sun had brought the thaw, and with it a return to the days of bathing in the stream. During Winter, with a lack of nearby hot springs, they’d had to make use of boiled water in wash-basins, a slower, less agreeable process. Cool though the river-water remained at this time of year, they welcomed it for the communal activity.

In her earthpony form, Galatea could still feel surprised that she shivered at the waters’ touch, when she witnessed the hairs upon her coat stand on end.

As was her wont, she stood a little way apart from the others. They paid her little mind, engaged as they were in their own talks. She’d come late today, anyway, for reasons she could not quite define. Already, most of the others had finished their cleansing and left. Two of the last were Birdsong and her mother, the village weaver – a mare as mottled-greened as her daughter, patiently working to wash Birdsong through the filly’s noisy, splashy complaints. 

Between a mouthful of soap, Galatea smiled to herself, pressing the bar to her foreleg. 

… Soap. A necessity of the mortal body.

Many a morning had Galatea spent just making lye, boiled from the collected ashes of hardwood in the hearth. When mixed with honey oat, beeswax and buttermilk. thus soap was made. Still, despite pleasant components, it had a grit to it, and taste, which made her sympathise with Birdsong. Yet means existed to improve it. While excavating her mountain, she’d uncovered a colourful mineral, which Bright Hearth had been interested to hear of. Mica, the matriarch had called it. A common mineral, no sparkling gem, but a fine colourant. Adding it to soap would delight the children, maybe bring some wealth to the hamlet.

For her part, Galatea was finding today’s bathing a challenge. While life as an earthpony had honed her usage of hooves, she still needed the practice to compensate for a horn in other areas. Hence why she held the soap-bar in her mouth, though she regretted it.

Then a false gesture caused it to slip and splash into the waters, carried away by the current.

Cursing, Galatea hurried after it downstream, ignoring the cold splashes. Losing a soap-bar would be a terrible waste, given how long making another would take, which she’d be responsible for.

Alas, the current was faster than she thought. Deprived of a horn or wings, she had no easy way of catching her quarry, and just as she was gaining on it, her hoof stumbled against a rock hidden below the water, tripping her up as, with a yowl, she slammed headfirst into the stream.

She resurfaced, unharmed, yet angry, her wet mane dripping into her eyes. Sturdy as she was, earthpony or alicorn, the fall had barely hurt. But her pride felt injured, and this was a rarity. Duty was her only pride. And over her stay, she’d come to share the villagers’ pride in their work.

At that moment, however, Galatea lay hunched, drenched and stewing, and resentful. A marvel her ire didn’t steam off her back, like a common horse in hot weather. The thought made her snort, before she realised this was just as undignified, further raising her dander.

Damn the ungainliness of mortal existence, these crude shells of flesh… 

“Galatea?”

His voice caught her unawares, making her ears twitch, which sent tiny droplets of water flying. When she dared look, it was to her alarm she saw her undignified stumble had been witnessed, Farther from the gathering than was customary, who should be at this secluded bend of the stream but Broadleaf Heart. His powerful, mountainous legs stood planted against the heightened current, except for the one foreleg, with which he’d been in the midst of soaping the other, only to be interrupted at the sight of her.

Seeing her like this must have come as a surprise, nay, a shock. But as his wits began to recover, a familiar twinkle appeared in his eye, and she knew him too well not to know he was holding back his laughter. She must have looked quite ridiculous.

Embarrassed, Galatea found nothing better than to shake the water from her mane.

“I had a mishap…”

“Yes,” Broadleaf smiled, hobbling over to her. “You could say that, fair maiden.”

Her cheeks flushed. “My soap. It slipped and I lost it in the current.”

“Ah. That is a loss.”

No further words were said.

A silence hung between them, nature’s sole refrain the trickle of the stream and distant birdsong. But they were the only ponies here, as even the namesake filly and her mother, further upstream, had departed in the interval, blind to Galatea’s mishap. The stallion proffered his hoof, in an offer to help her up. She took it, her shame and ire quite melted away. Only then did she notice that, with the dexterity of a born earthpony, Broadleaf still held his own soap-bar, as it squeezed into hers.

Made curious, Galatea gave the stallion another stare, properly taking in his appearance now. Here, the reason for his bathing in isolation, the reason none had seen him bathe in company since last Autumn, grew clear to her. It was his strong foreleg, that which had sustained no injury, which helped her up. His spare foreleg still bore the marks from where the beam had crushed it.

This conclusion surprised her. Galatea would never have suspected Broadleaf of any vanity. But it was at this same time something else struck her, that she’d never took notice of before. For never in the past had she seen him like this up close, nor considered to glance from afar.

Here was Broadleaf Heart, quite divested of the jerkin he usually wore.

His garment, as it happened, hung slung over the branch of an oak upon the riverside. Yet the foreleg which touched hers, and the stallion himself, were bare as any of the hamlet’s foals in Summer. At one time, this would have meant nothing. Now, after that Winter by his side, to see him like this gave her a sense of a vulnerability hanging over him, mountainous though he was.

Keeping the silence, Galatea did not immediately pull away from him. Her grip wrapped around the bar in his grasp, and she noted surprise in his eyes, until she nodded towards his scarred foreleg. Then he understood. Finding an agility that had evaded her when she’d sought to soap herself, Galatea sidled up by his side, to gently continue the ministrations he’d begun.

He was a well-built stallion. She had always felt aware of this. Never until then, however, had she paid attention to Broadleaf’s body in such fashion. When she had tended to him, she’d been fulfilling a task, aiding in the mend of mortal sinew and ligament, which no matter how powerful was ever destined to slow decay. The trace of this lingered on, in the scar he was ashamed that any but her should see.

Yet, for the first time, she perceived a living being in ways that picked up more than practicality.

His coat shining with river-water in the low, golden light of the Sun, Broadleaf Heart was  beautiful to her. This was especially vivid now for her senses. Shorn of his garment, she saw Broadleaf in his fullest glory, even vulnerable to wear and tear as mortal bodies are. Saw the rock-solid, rippling muscle of his forelegs, which had carried so many loads for his fellow villagers. Saw the flowing grace of his mane, unbraided. Saw the sturdiness of his haunches, adorned by the mark that bespoke his soul, like all ponies.

Even she had such a mark. The mark of her purpose, her heart’s desire. Perhaps she was not so unlike mortal ponies as she supposed…

She must have slowed in her ministrations, for Broadleaf was glancing at her curiously. But Galatea did not pick up. Instead, she let her eyes meet his.

Unbidden, still wordless, Broadleaf leaned in, and brought his lips to hers.

… Galatea did not pull away.

What followed was forever a haze, peculiar to her perfect memory. She only knew that somehow, they moved from the waters to the riverside, upon a patch of a grass, concealed from view, beneath the tree on which his jerkin lay slung… He came to lie on top of her, heavy yet gentle, and she was thankful for her strength, while his lips touched hers again and again…  A scent filled her senses.  His scent. And her legs wrapped around the stallion’s haunches… 

She was following an unknown drive, an instinct which surely could not be part of her directive. Yet nothing was here to hold her back. Only her, and the dear stallion pressed against her. As their lips touched once more, she felt his powerful body shudder between the grip of her legs. Stars danced behind her closed eyelids, reminiscent of the golden, ethereal shimmer her enhanced senses told her was coating their bodies… Whereupon, he thrust.

On this balmy Spring afternoon, Broadleaf Heart took her, as she took him. 

And for Galatea, who’d lived many lifetimes, this one crystalline second was an eternity in itself.


* * * * *


The town’s graveyard was further out, away from the eyes of the townsfolk. 

Galatea had seen so many graves before, yet only ever in passing. Be it tribal conflict, be it fire, flood of famine, be it outbreaks of pestilence, the living world so often provided large swaths of hastily-dug graves. All Three Tribes were vested in their own means of seeing off the dead. The pegasi left their lifeless shells in the mountains to be picked by scavengers, and the unicorns cremated their own and scattered their ashes. But earthponies returned their kind to the earth.

The cairn before her was a lonely, if still well-maintained one, bereft of the moss or vines that so frequently invaded an unattended sepulchre. That was what Galatea told herself. There were plenty of other graves here, some less well-tended and others better. Graves that housed and would house both sexes alike, of all ages and walks of life, all sharing this common space.

The children had left her standing here, sacrificing their noontime to bring her to this place, thereafter returning to their work out in the field. Whatever pondering, whatever reflection she could conjure, as the Sun moved across the sky, nothing could change the irrevocable truth, nor truly bring peace to her mind. Broadleaf Heart now lay beneath the earth, where his eyes would remain forever closed. Never again Galatea would hear his laughter brighten her day, not at night feel his warmth against hers.

‘Did that really happen?’ she wondered to herself, tears in her eyes. ‘Was this, any of it ever real? I, who have seen so much, remember so much… Am I remembered by any? Do I now see only what I want to see? Do I take my dreams for reality?’

So many stories to tell. So many questions to ask. So little time shared, between the two of them.

Perhaps it was meant to be. Had she stayed, she would have seen him grow old, while she remained unchanged. She would have seen him wither and perish, as all living things do. Perhaps it was for the best. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Her Broadleaf was here, here and so very close. Try as she could, though, to move earth and grind rock into dust, there was nothing left to be done. No matter how far deep beneath a mountain she could dig, in time, nothing she could do would ever set her close to Broadleaf Heart, need it be an eternity.

Once the longest second, minute, or hour of her life had passed, all Galatea could muster were feeble words. 

“I miss you.”

Her voice disappeared into the quiet air. No answer came. No answer would come.

Slowly, gingerly, she traced a hoof around the weathered gravestone. Nothing much was left of the words carved upon it. She knew not even how old he’d grown. Forty years was a blink to her. How could she have forgotten that in this world, the long-lived yet mortal such as Firefly were the exception and not the rule. Only his mark remained, the autumn leaf. A mark etched so vividly there, as it was in her mind.

The sound of hooves cracking dry leaves prompted a headturn from her.

There stood the two children, again. Their coats matted with sweat from a hard day’s worth of field work. Time, time had once again passed her by… Yet it was the elderly mare standing by their sides who caught Galatea’s eyes. Enough that she dared to lower her hood.

Mottled green, the elderly one had been so long ago. A shade now greatly faded. Yet her emerald eyes remained sharp as ever, through the dark veil she wore.

Birdsong’s eyes widened as she spoke with an old, weary voice.

“... Galena?” 


* * * * *


Numbness overtook Galatea. There was little she could think of, afterwards. All her thoughts clashing like cymbals, all woes coalescing into one. Besides her walked the children, and the elderly mare who was Birdsong. Yet she couldn’t have been. Birdsong had been so young…

They walked, on and on, till they reached a wooden cottage, close to the edge of the town. Not a single word had been uttered on the way there. Not even when Birdsong turned to her grandchildren, and asked them to wait outside the door. The cottage was small, yet Galatea could well see that it displayed the luxury even the old longhall had lacked, down to the finely-varnished floor that had supplanted straw and earth. Upon old shelves, evidently carved by a master of the craft, there lay neatly arranged spools of thread, and even the intricately-decorated wooden chairs were not free of a stray needle.

Galatea’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of an old clock, resting on the stone mantelpiece. But the pained, longing feeling went receded no sooner than it had appeared, for she summoned her focus upon the elderly mare who sat across her, separated by a small table while Galatea made her seat on the floor. And Birdsong, lighting a candle, for the Sun was coming to set, spoke anew in that same wizened voice.

“You haven’t aged a day.”

“... No. No I haven’t,” said Galatea, keeping her voice steady. “Nor will I ever.”

Her eyes felt wet, and part of her wondered if they glistened in the candlelight.

Birdsong, too, had tears in her eyes. “We thought you were dead. That a lone wolf on the road or… or anything could have taken you to the grave.”

‘Wish I that they had,’ came Galatea’s unspoken thought.

“He waited, Galena,” said the elderly mare, shaking her head. He and… everyone that knew you.”

“Was he happy?” Galatea asked, before the pain within could stir unbearably. “Was– had he… had he been happy, in all the years I was gone?”

“... You really are her, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“How–”

“–am I so young? I wish that I knew, yet… for all of mine life, this is what it has always been, Birdsong. It is all that I can remember.” 

Galatea gazed down at the ground, pacing her breaths in short, steady intakes. Everything in the world weighed on her mind. Everything and nothing.

“He mourned you,” Birdsong continued, “for some time. He told me he’d moved on, but… part of him wanted to know what became of you. You know how he was. He couldn’t forget you easily. I can still see him on that porch, standing by, watching drawn carts enter the town, day by day, waiting, always waiting…”

Galatea let out a bitter laugh.

“I promised him that I’d return,” she said, “and now I have. What use are mine words now, when I can’t even return to him, the stallion that I… that I… ”

She choked out the last few words. 

“I loved him,” she whispered. “I loved him and I couldn’t–” 

Undeniable, now, that Birdsong ‘s eyes glistened with tears. “Don’t, Galena. I assure you that in time he made peace with your passing, even if he told me in his dying days that… that he still thought you’d come back. But he made peace. Enough to see this hamlet grow, and grow, until he could no longer hoist lumber on his back, or prevent those miners from destroying your nook…”

Galatea looked at her, through the wetness in her eyes.

Small, feeble, frail was the elderly mare before her, her days of childhood long since passed, the vigour of her youth faded beneath her wrinkles. Strong, sturdy, boisterous was the stallion she had known, had loved, her ever present companion, her Broadleaf. No longer, though. Gone, buried deep within the earth, once he’d withered away, and even there his body would not last...

“You found them, didn’t you?” asked Birdsong, interrupting her dreary contemplations. “The children you sought to meet. The Princesses. Is that why you never came back?”

Galatea bit her lip, her own well-worn, chipped forehooves raising up for her to look upon.

“I did,” she said, recalling the two children she had met – no, seen so long ago. The children who now reigned proudly in their ivory city. “But I could not meet them.”

“Why?”

“I was a stranger to them. And a stranger I shall remain to them,” said Galatea, biting back a bitter grimace. “Here I am, to where I was not one, and nothing remains…”

Silence, at first. Broken only by the distant sounds of the town, and the quietly ticking clock. Broadleaf’s treasured clock, Galatea remembered. The clock he’d chosen, one Hearthswarming... 

Opposite her, Galatea heard the creaks of an old chair displacing. An elderly hoof touched hers. Galatea looked up, her eyes gazing into green eyes that were so much younger than hers, yet looked older, at first glance.

“Take heed, Galena,” Birdsong said. “He only ever wanted you to be happy. For you to live. That is what he told me.”

Galatea contemplated it for but a moment. Shaking her head, brushing memories aside, she reached for the brooch that fastened her cloak.

“Take this, Birdsong,” Galatea said. “Take the cloak. It… it should be yours.”

Birdsong made no move, for the longest time. Then ever so slowly, her hoof moved to press the brooch, back in place.

“No… no, Galena,” she said. “All my life, I’ve woven and spun cloth, of many colours and make. All of them have their purpose and beauty woven into their threads.”

She moved Galatea’s forehoof over the brooch. Old, leathery, yet she was warm to the touch. 

“We presented the cloak to you so that it might protect you on your travels. And so long as it protects you, then… then his wish is fulfilled.”


* * * * *


Once Birdsong had told all that she could remember of the town and the days that went by, the two of them emerged from the cottage, walking beside one another. The Sun now almost lay beyond the horizon, and neither of them spoke once Birdsong had called for her grandchildren to keep them company. They walked down roads built to accommodate the growing trade, past lumber mills, past the market closing shop for the day. All with their own stories, Galatea had been told. Stories that should and would remain with her, for the years to come.

Much did Galatea hear from the grandchildren, though, in her silence. The eldest, the colt named Winter Hearth, spoke of field work as if it was as natural to him as playing with his sister or assisting in the household. And though her brother would often be off toiling for hours on end, young Song Weave had grown used to it, tailoring her playtime to his work.

It concerned Galatea that such a young soul carried these burdens, although it was far from new to her experiences, now she had seen the world. The young took upon heavy tasks before they’d had good time to grow into them, the old slipped out of this life wishing they left a better world for their young, and she always remained, neither young nor old.

She had nothing to offer them, anymore than she had to offer herself. Only one, small thing.

There, at the graveyard, witnessed by the three ponies who’d followed her tread, and with the last rays of the setting Sun as her light, Galatea worked. She tapped away using a chisel she’d brought with her, borrowed at Birdsong’s request from a local stonemason. Thus had her old hamlet town, to accommodate more than one practitioner of a craft.

Her work upon the gravestone, for all her centuries, lacked in refinement. Stonemasonry was one of the finest of artisanships, but one she had never taken time to learn. Talk was that, in the greatest towns, masons were beginning to gather in secret, sharing in what mysteries they’d learned from their hewing of the rock, as if the dust left by their chiselling was clue to measuring the world’s firmament.

Maybe she would seek them out. Or maybe not. All she knew was that her mystery was her own.

So when she’d finished, her eyes looking over the freshly carved name upon the gravestone, forehoof wiping away the dust, Galatea wondered if she’d return here, for years to come.

She pressed her lips against the cold stone, before standing up to her full height. “This town… what is it called?”

“Stratusburg,” said Birdsong. “The pegasi named it as such. We agreed, for their rainwater helped this home of ours flourish more than ever.”

Galatea gave a firm nod. A strange name, for a familiar place. A name to go with all the memories which she held. But if Stratusburg was what this town was called, Stratusburg was what she’d remember it as.

One final look at the old cairn, then back at Birdsong, so old and feeble and small, with her grandchildren flanking her, brought a surge of emotions to Galatea. A growing tightness rose in her chest. A feeling of searing heat in her moist eyes.

Loss. Longing. Regret.

She drew a deep breath, weighing her words, taking care not to spill it all at once.

“If I am never to know his story by his own words… tell me, please Birdsong,” Galatea said, hardly above a whisper. “What is your story?”

The elderly mare looked at her from behind her veil. Galatea could hardly discern her thoughts, even as she spoke carefully.

“Who do you remember me as, Galena?” asked Birdsong in turn.

Galatea blinked, tilted her head. “A child,” she replied. “An aspiring weaver. A joy of this village.”

Birdsong lifted her veil, showing her wrinkled old smile.

“If that is how you remember me,” she said, “then that is who I wish to be, for all the days to come. I am in my twilight days, Galena. But if I shall be a child as you remember… then please, remember the child that I once was.”

“Do you have to go?” asked little Song Weave. “You’ve only just arrived!”

“We’ve got room,” added Winter Hearth. “You can stay with us if you want.”

Galatea stooped to meet the filly’s eyes, with a sad little smile. “I must. I’ve… so much to do.”

She patted the filly, and gave her brother an equally kind smile when she rose up.

“Take good care of your sister,” said Galatea. “Take good care of one another… There is a long road ahead, for the two of you.”

She hoped it was a smile to remain with them in every year, these children who though still a little shy were so earnest and hardworking, through whatever hardships awaited them.

Finally, her eyes met the unveiled Birdsong’s. Her forehoof was welcomed by the weaver’s.

“I’m sorry,” said Galatea, “I wish… I wished I’d returned.”

“I know not of your duties, Galena,” said Birdsong, “but if it’s a duty you must carry out… then I have no doubt you’ll do just fine. Live well, Galena. Your road is just as long as any one of ours.”

Galatea, without another word nor hesitation, pulled the old weaver into a warm embrace. She did not know when, if ever, she would ever see the nameless mountain, nor the hamlet by the waters again. All she knew was the burden so many lived with, and the burden she carried with her, always. Both of them she had quietly pledged to carry, no matter how long it took.

Yet as she turned away and walked down the road towards that uncertain future, her thoughts wandered further still, from days gone by to the little piece of hope she had left, that the Sun and Moon awaited her at the end of it all.



> VII ~ The Watcher's Night
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


VII



The Watcher’s Night





~ Vanhoover, Equestria ~ Year 1 of the Era Harmoniae ~
—Three thousand years later

The Sun’s rays bore down on Vanhoover and its citizens, in these last days of Summer. Yet in the heat of day, the workers toiled on. Vanhoover counted all the Three Tribes among its people, and here the earthponies laboured. On and on they went, lifting, pulling and pushing, all for another month’s worth of pay. Bricks were delivered, heavy steel beams raised, nails hammered in anf countless and screws turned. It was hardship, yet their effort would be given compensation, and the day would pass into laughter and drink and other such worldly pleasures.

For one grey earthpony, her duty never stopped, as she carried her own share of the load. She stood taller than many, and stronger still. That meant she often bore the most.

But she saw in this no reason for complaint. It was activity she cherished, or came as close as she could to enjoying.

So, when the final load was dropped off, as the building’s last few bricks were set in place, the tall mare took the time to listen to the sighs of relief, all around her. Though they would never reside in this building, payday lay right around the corner. It wasn’t much, she mused, but it was enough for her, even as her mind went to her greater duty, her labour, and her uncertain future.

Life went on, after all.


* * * * *


Laying down on her side, the tips of her hooves hanging off the edge, the earthpony heard her colleagues’ voices grow distant, each of their voices disappearing one by one as they lined up to exit down the stairwell.

She was alone now, as always.

The price she had paid since time immemorial.

Never to intervene, the closest being when a sister of hers was left lonely at the top for so long. There had she walked, ever unseen, standing by in the event that the Sun were to be eclipsed by the darkness too, a darkness that never came to be in the Long Peace that Celestia had presided. 

Galatea looked up, at the cloud-covered Sun. It was past noon. A few hours to go.

She turned her gaze, taking in the sight of the city from up here. A ten-storey skyscraper, this now was, and it offered her a more than decent view of this old city. Completed, at long last. One last watch from up high, then, and her work here would be done as well, for the time being.

She stood up, stretched a little bit, then headed down, waiting for the Moon to rise under the control of her youngest sister, as it had a thousand years ago, and again these past two months.

‘As it should be…’

Ponies found many occupations in their leisure time, Galatea had discovered, as the world evolved to create greater time for leisure even amongst the workforce. Right now, her erstwhile colleagues might be going bowling. Or to an affordable spa. Or the theatre, either for a play or the moving pictures. Games of cards and dice were still as popular as they'd been in centuries. There'd likely be visits later to the night-clubs, both for those who watched the dancers or those who danced themselves.

Dances… Music, merriment… 

Her taste for frivolity, if ever it had blossomed, had remained somewhere embedded, and lodged, within that night a very long time ago, when a tiny hamlet had celebrated the completion of its longhall and much raucousness had been shared over mead.

A visit to the nearby bar ought to clear her mind, Galatea concluded, just as it had throughout the last couple of weeks.

And so she went.


* * * * *


Royal Guards at peace weren’t the calmest of bunches, Snow Mist mused. Especially in a Downtown Vanhoover bar like this. During what they called the quiet hours of the day, on top of that, when few other patrons were around. Holding down a sigh, she resisted an urge to scratch the back of her right wing, where the soreness still acted up at times like this in particular.

“Look at that one, Sarge,” Icewind whispered. “D’you reckon she’s available?”

Snow Mist looked over her copy of The Vanhoover Sun, to where Icewind was pointing. She blew a raspberry, shaking her head. The naïvete of a cadet’s mind knew no bounds.

“Keep dreaming, Ice,” Mist teased, “you’re not getting her.”

Chuckling at her colleague’s indignant huff, she returned to her paper. The headline was the change in weather-maintenance schedule. Business as usual, she decided.

They were sitting at one of the tables, waiting for Icewind’s old friend and fellow cadet to return from the post office. Winter Truce had insisted he send the letter by himself, thus Snow Mist and Icewind saw fit to wait on him. Of course, the flirtatious cadet she was stuck with had already begun to let his mind wander. To his credit, he was keeping his voice mostly quiet. Mostly.

“You sure?” Icewind replied, cheekily. The grey pegasus chuckled. “I think I might.”

Sighing, Mist peered over her newspaper again to take a closer look at the mare in question.

The earthpony  was sitting over at the bar, leaning on the countertop, with only the occasional flick of her dark braided tail to indicate she wasn’t a statue. The patchwork travelling cloak she wore was pushed aside, exposing most of her light grey figure, lighter than Icewind’s own distinctive coat, albeit bearing a mark in the form of a pale grey eye. 

“She’s grey all over,” said Mist, glancing at Icewind. “I thought you liked redheads.”

“Might as well try, though,” Icewind countered. “She’s not half-bad.”

Mist returned to look at the mare again. Still at the countertop, and still sitting idly. Only now did Mist notice she was ever so slightly taller than one might expect. Slender, yet athletic, from her long, toned legs, to her firm, well-defined chest, partially hidden beneath her cloak…

Then Mist realised that her cheeks felt warm, and she tore her gaze away.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she said, coughing to hide her fluster. “Aren’t you gonna try?”

“Gotta be patient, Sarge,” said Icewind, shrugging. Mist laughed.

“Yeah, okay, you're not going anywhere if you’re second-guessing yourself all the time,” she said. “You see your chance, you take it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Icewind said, with a scoff. “I’d like to see you try then.”

Mist tapped her chin, briefly. She smiled slyly.

“Okay, then.” She stood up, only pausing to furtively check herself over. Especially a certain spot behind her right wing… Fortunately, it was well concealed in the dim light of the bar. “I mean, I’m not exactly into mares, but let’s see if ol’ Misty’s still got the charm.”


* * * * *


It hadn’t taken long for Snow Mist to think that this time around, she might have gotten herself in too deep. In record time no less. Fifteen minutes from her flippant declaration to that upstart Icewind, to her sitting awkwardly with the mare they'd both been eyeing. It was only by luck that after having flubbed her opening line (‘Darn it, Mist’) and picked up a snicker from Icewind, Mist was hearing the mare politely tell her she could sit by her side.

And Galena was a peculiar mare. The good kind of peculiar, she hoped.

“So, Manehattan, huh?” Mist said, taking a sip from her glass. Galena nodded. The earthpony's icy blue eyes were much like her own, if a little colder, coupled with the contemplative gaze. “Thought you were from Vanhoover University.”

“Yes,” Galena affirmed. “Third year. Geology.”

‘So… twenty-one-ish, then…’

“Uh-huh… and uh, what brings ya to Vanhoover?” Mist followed up. “Ain’t exactly a place anyone looks toward for a vacation.”

“I’m inclined to disagree,” retorted the mare. “I find it a fine place. Yet it is true, I did not come here for mine vacation.”

“You got a real funny way of talking there, no offence,” Mist replied. “Just saying.”

She looked at Galena, from top to bottom. She really was tall. Not quite as tall as Princess Celestia, but a tall mare nonetheless. Elegant too, both in her accent – probably from someplace near the Griffish Isles, or Canterlot – and in her figure. Even so, the grey mare looked as if she had spent the day out and about in the Sun, from her toned, well-defined forelegs and– 

“Is something wrong?” Galena spoke, with a frown, and suddenly Mist felt very self-conscious. Folding her wing against herself, she averted her gaze, coughing, all the while preferring to stare into her glass of beer.

“No, no, nothing, nothing,” she said, taking another sip, tipsy by now. “Just…”

She thought for a moment.

“I like the way you talk,” said Mist, downing another sip. “There. It’s… no, it ain’t wrong, just unique, I guess. Vanhoover don’t exactly got much in the way of accents, so it’s kinda funny to hear Griffish… from Manehattan.”

“I see,” said Galena, simply. “It is a rare accent.”

“Pish, tell me about it,” Mist replied, chuckling. “Still, fancy gal like you, here in Vanhoover? Qnd here I thought Winter Truce was the only one who'd gone posh… Doesn't use quite the same fancy accent, but yeah, you get me.”

The mare shrugged. “I’ve taken an academic break,” she said. “I thought spending mine Summer here working would be good experience.”

Galena glanced down at her forehooves. Although kept clean, Mist could see they were chipped here and there, and upon closer inspection of Galena’s youthful face, she saw there were tired bags under her eyes.

“Experience is the best teacher,” Mist replied. “You’re gonna need a lot of those, college girl.”

“Oh, don’t I know it, Sergeant. I’ve been here a while, I’m sure you’ve noticed. There is more to life than books, of course,” Galena said wistfully, which she followed up by locking her eyes with Snow Mist's, calmly sipping from her glass. “And it wouldn’t hurt to get more experience under mine belt, wouldn’t it?” 

They both stayed silent, for a while. At the corner of her lips, Mist thought she saw a smile tugging at Galena's face..

“Guess so,” said Mist. “A Royal Guard’s job is never done, but well...”

She flicked her mane, with a half-lidded gaze and a smirk. She hadn’t bothered tying her long-bob mane into a proper bun, yet she didn’t particularly care at the moment.

Now to live up to her own advice.

“Honestly? I’ve… I’ve had my eyes on you for some time,” Mist said, diving into the words. “This here bar's gotten a little brighter since you showed up. If you’d like, we could continue this elsewhere. If you got time, that is.”

This was a half-truth, Snow Mist privately admitted to herself. She had indeed spotted the mare here from time to time, long before Icewind openly pointed her out. A face in the crowd, Mist had thought then. But now, looking at her…

Well. Excitement was putting it lightly. It had been a while.

Galena pondered this for but a moment. And she nodded, and even without looking, Snow Mist could tell Icewind’s jaw had dropped at that exact instant, behind her back.

A part of her wanted to gloat at Icewind right then and there. But her heart’s pounding and flutter convinced her otherwise.

“I’ve got time,” said Galena, “mine work is complete in Vanhoover. Some break ought to do it.”

“I’ll bet,” Mist agreed. “This is– well, you did say you’re one to spare change…” She rummaged her thoughts. “Windy Peaks Hotel,” she decided. “Not the most upmarket of places, but… I hope it’s good enough.”

“Windy Peaks it is. It’s good enough.” said Galena primly. “When does your shift end?

“Ah… around seven,” Mist replied. “Gotta get cleaned up first and all, you know."

 The other mare nodded. “Then I'll meet you at the lobby, half past eight. And please, no alcohol.” 

Mist smirked at that. She pushed her glass away, still feeling a little tipsy, of course, but in four hours, give or take, she ought to be just fine. The anxiety would be future Mist’s problem, alright.

“What are we, Canterlot?” she said, chuckling. “No alcohol. Got it.”


* * * * *


With the passing years, Galatea had long worked out a usual pattern to her trysts.

Yet somehow it always did feel fresh with each new partner that came to her doorstep, creative or otherwise. Whether it was her preference, or part of her mission to observe, as she had long told herself, Galatea could not tell. For in the end, there was no distinction. A part of life for her to experience.

She lay there on the couch down at the lobby of the Windy Peaks. Still cloaked, yet opposite her prospective partner. The hotel was an old one, one of the first built when Vanhoover was only a small port town many centuries ago. Even now, it remained a humble little abode – and personally, one of the most comforting, with its wooden facade and rustic design.

Worth its price, Galatea surmised. And a pleasant enough place to spend the night in, for the lower-end district it was situated in.

She glanced at Snow Mist, taking in the sight of her. Sleek, yet firm, and of such pleasant colours, given the shade of light blue to her coat, and a snow-white mane equally streaked with said blue. Her gaze drifted towards the mare's body – fit, well-kept, the hallmarks of a Royal Guard. Athletic and alluring, with a firm flank. Galatea surmised that for most ponies, the flank was most attractive. That was what she'd concluded from her own feelings that surfaced, in the heat of the moment. And a pegasus’ wings always allowed for some unorthodox romps in bed. 

And there on the flank lay her mark. Three little snowflakes, the wind blowing them away.

Galatea looked at Mist’s face. She frowned upon seeing the mare's nervous lip-bite, her pretty eyes darting left and right.

“You look pale, Mist,” said Galatea, with a raised eyebrow. 

“Do I?” Mist asked. “I guess, yeah…”

She shrugged, letting out a nervous chuckle.

“It’s– just, well, my… first time. With a mare! First time with a mare, it’ll be my first time, gah.”

“You’ve mentioned that before,” Galatea noted. “You seemed confident, before we left the bar.”

“Yeah. I guess. Sorry, heh. Join the Guard and… go right back to being a teenager.”

“I see,” said Galatea. “From mine experience, the anxiety tends to fade away with arousal.”

Mist’s cheeks reddened. “Gosh, are you always this direct?”

“When needed.”

“As if I need it right now.”

Galatea responded with a shrug. “Perhaps not,” she said. “But soon, yes.”

Mist didn’t say much to that, providing only another nervous chuckle as her reply. And as with many occasions prior, events faded into a clinical blur for Galatea. A routine check in. A walk up the stairs, side by side. Stolen glances from her partner, glances she returned in kind.

Snow Mist was the nervy sort in private, Galatea could tell. Not a trace of this anxious side had been visible at the bar, but Galatea didn’t mind. The genuine sorts always stayed in her mind, long after they parted. And perhaps the mare by her would remain as well.

They arrived at their room, N° 42. Galatea led the way, pushing the door open. They were welcomed with an old, large double-bed, with a futon and a bedrest, draped in a simple brown-and-grey pattern sheet. Across the futon was a small fireplace, though Winter would not be here for a few months, and the dim lamps gave the needed light.

Galatea walked in further, and stood between the futon, and the fireplace. The window to the outside was closed shut, and only the shine of her sister’s Moon shone through it.

The door locked with a click, and Galatea glanced behind her. Mist was fumbling with the keys, muttering all the while. In the meantime, Galatea looked back to the window, and approached it with deliberation.

She was met by the sight of the alleyway beside the hotel. 

This city would be called old today, that much she knew. She hadn't been there when the first crude bricks were place, yet she’d assisted there for its library, and the second town hall over the next century. The alley was quiet at this time of night, a far cry from the bustling city centre. And yet she could see them now, if she imagined them as she remembered. The spectres of those who had passed through this city.

The peasantry, coming by with the season’s harvest. Weather workers from centuries past till this very morning, retiring from their shifts. Soldiers on patrol, sharing tales of creatures fought in the deepest forests. And of course, labourers and workers lifting and toiling away, building the city brick by brick, log by log.

Then, another memory rose, of unpleasant odours felt so strongly, and the sights of the streets filled with–


* * * * *


–the dead and dying, stacked in a lonely alleyway.

Galatea turned her eyes away from it, even as the stench made her eyes water through the mask. She had to get the healer by her back to her tent, where she wished to make her stand. 

Three times did they meet. Galatea stood by the river’s edge, and so did the healer, the mare named Equinox. She was a ferrier then, carrying supplies in and out, across the raging river. Equinox had been sent here, or rather, sent herself here from Canterlot, ignoring the wishes of her mother.

Three times did Galatea call out to her from across the river. Three times did Equinox answer and converse with her, for long periods of time each, sharing what she could, as Galatea did the same. And three times did Equinox deny Galatea’s pleas, insisting that she would die as she lived her duty, to heal others in need.

The third time they met, Galatea saw how the pale blue mare, who so closely resembled her mother, collapsed on the riverbank. The plague had taken hold of her too. Yet even as she spat out blood and viscera, all she could tell Galatea was how many more left she needed to cure, and to ask if Flight Feather, her bodyguard had returned with news from Canterlot.

What could she do then, to deny Princess Equinox her duty? So she waded through the river, unheeding of its raging rapids, and hoisted the mare to stand. A healer’s life was a difficult one, and Galatea could fault her little for that. A moment’s reassurance that Flight Feather was well on his way back was all Equinox had needed to keep going who knew how long.

Yet, all the while, as Equinox quietly remarked on how their eyes so closely resembled one another, all Galatea could think of was how she’d failed Luna in bringing her daughter back…


* * * * *


All faded into the quiet image of the alleyway. Perhaps it was just that – an alleyway. But every place had its story. And she remembered.

“Hey, Gal,” Mist said aloud. “Are ya just gonna stand there?”

Galatea turned to look at Mist. She was sitting upright, in an unorthodox position, usually assumed by the Minotaur and their ilk. And she looked a little bit curious.

“Sorry just… thinking,” Galatea said. She lowered her hoof from the window sill. “Just the city.”

Mist tilted her head. “Ah, well,” she said, with a shrug. “Not much to see there, I take it?”

Galatea tilted her head.

“Plenty, actually,” she said. Another glance at the brick wall, before turning her eyes back to Mist. “It isn’t so much what I see now than it is what it must have been then. How that wall came to be, brick by brick. Just like this city, really. All the ponies that came together, through these years, each a small part of this greater whole...”

She shook her head.

“Do forgive me,” she said. “I like to ponder, I’ve been told. But one could appreciate a pretty sight or two, at the moment.”

She fixed her eyes on Mist’s, who averted her gaze bashfully. That might have been a nervous, flirty smirk from Snow Mist. She had a nice little smile, Galatea concluded.

“Wow. That’s… yeah, those are some nice words, Gal. Gosh, erm– yeah, it’s home,” Mist said. “Pretty– pretty comfy, when… when you get to know it.” She shook her head, chuckling nervously. “Gah. Mist, what are ya doing. Was 'bout to… say something, uh… awkward.”

Her voice died down. It might’ve been because Galatea had locked her eyes with hers.

“I see,” she said. And, before Mist could say anything else, she had already shrunk the gap between them, with a few steps. Mist’s head only reached half of her neck, and the smaller mare had to look up at her.

“So,” Mist said, clearing her throat. “How… how d’you wanna do this…”

“You tell me,” said Galatea, inclining her head. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Or maybe you could show me.”

She placed a forehoof on Mist’s own, and felt a shudder from the pegasus. Slowly, she trailed the hoof up, brushing away locks of Mist’s mane. Properly cut, yet not too short, and Mist let her mane down, where it reached the middle of her neck.

It was a pleasing look, all in all.

“Gal,” Mist said. “I don’t know if anyone told you yet, but uh, darn it, might as well say it– you’re pretty. Right. Sorry.”

Galatea said nothing to that, rubbing the back of Mist’s neck softly. A little tense, but slowly, she relaxed under her gentle touch.

“I’m really doing this, right, right… right,” Mist continued, though whether it was for her, or herself, Galatea had to wonder. “S-sorry. Just nervous is all…”

Mist’s voice died down as she looked up to meet her eyes. There was a growing longing in them.

“That's, um… that's a very, curious cloak you got there,” Mist said, her voice shaky, hoof brushing against the ancient travelling cloak. Little had remained of its original Reindeer-thread, woven by Birdsong aeons ago, and by now it was a messy patchwork of different threads. But it was still here, Galatea thought, which was  all she cared for.

With a single, practised motion, the cloak dropped to the floor in a heap, exposing Galatea's whole form to Mist's awestruck eyes. She felt her tail lift a little off the ground, swishing past Mist's hooves.

Excitement was to be expected. She'd done this countless times. Yet nothing could ever match the thrill of these moments, the way her heart thumped and fluttered.

Before her was the one mare who mattered in the world, here and now, in this secluded corner.

“I am here, Mist,” Galatea whispered, hoof moving to caress her partner’s chin. Mist blushed, and Galatea too felt her cheeks heat up, unwittingly. “You need not worry…”

And, without further hesitation, Snow Mist reached out and pulled her into a kiss.

Like many nights before, Galatea took the time to savour the tender moment, feeling Mist's lips on hers. Here, experience took over, and she returned Mist's embrace with a hoof round her neck, holding her tight with their lips locked.

Neither of them broke away. The smaller mare guided her onto the bed, pressing her body tightly against hers. They kissed, they touched and embraced, and so the night goes on, for a long, long time.


* * * * *


“Okay… okay, I’m… I’m done, I think...”

Galatea’s partner of the night, still sweating and panting from ecstasy, laid down on her chest. As she had grown used to doing, Galatea’s hooves moved to gently stroke her snow-coloured mane. It was a soft texture of hair, and reminded her of a warm fireplace, paradoxically. Snow Mist let out a blissful, satisfied sigh, moving to gently rest a hoof on her chest.

“I really liked that,” she whispered. “Like…”

“Agreed,” Galatea said, taking a second to compose herself, breathing heavily. She gave Mist a quick peck on the muzzle. “A good time.”

“Really good. Hold up, I-I just need to stretch a little…”

Still sluggish, her lover moved and sat up straight on the edge of the bed, stretching her forelimbs and wings. This allowed Galatea a full view of her bare, sweaty back, all the way down to her curvaceous behind. The dim lamp-light of the hotel room cast the guardsmare in a flattering light, and Galatea’s gaze drifted from her now frazzled, messy mane, the feathers on her wings, to the scruffy fur on her neck where she had been kissed and nipped at, and her snow-coloured tail, streaked with blue, moving from side to side.

She continued to stretch and flex – fitness in the Guard needed to be kept up, after all – as Galatea continued her passive, unspoken admiration of her fit physique. Which didn’t evade Mist’s notice evidently, when she glanced back, and gave her a sultry smile.

“Like what you see?” she said flirtatiously, before letting out a giggle. “Gah, that sounds terrible. Flirting’s not my thing.”

“It happens,” said Galatea, frankly. “And yes. I like what I’m seeing.”

“You’re a funny mare, Gal,” said Mist, winking coyly at her. “But still. Terrible line, blegh.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve heard worse, plenty of times. Often-times from me.”

“Really, now?” said Mist. She turned to face Galatea fully, taking in the sight of her reclining form.

“It depends,” said Galatea. She adjusted her position, leaning against the bedrest. Although she was taller than Mist, now she looked her eye-to-eye, blue on blue. She contemplated the cover story she had crafted for this decade. A partial repeat of her doctorate cover, but it’ll do. “Geology isn’t the most socially-engaging of the sciences. It’s an in-depth and down-to-earth subject, as it were, but not the great conversation-starter, from mine long experience.”

She shifted in her position, under Mist’s curious gaze. The pegasus mare climbed onto the bed once more and pulled up the sheets with her. As if in response, Galatea flicked her mane. Her braid had come undone a few hours ago, leaving her mane a mess, several locks hanging over one eye.

“Well,” noted Mist, “Can’t say I know what they teach you in geology out on the field, but… Oh, you‘re good with your hooves, Gal.”

“You aren’t too bad yourself,” replied Galatea. “For a first-timer, I liked that.”

“With a mare, mind, first time with a mare…” Mist emphasised huffily She moved closer, resting herself upon Galatea’s chest. “Long experience, you tell me… You musta done a lot, in so little time.”

Galatea reflected upon this. “Yes.”

“Mmh. Say, how does a girl of the world end all the way out here, at the edge of Equestria?”

“Ennui,” Galatea replied, shrugging. “A change of scenery is as good as a holiday. An acquaintance of mine told me that, once, in… I’m not sure how long ago that was,” she lied, her collected recollections of the past as vivid as ever. “Home at Stratusburg is beautiful, true, especially if you’ve read up on the history. There’s much to be said about Manehattan. I particularly like the theatre subculture. But there are always more places to see.” She paused, glancing at her partner. “Now,” she said, ruffling Mist’s mane. “I don’t suppose you could tell me about this town of yours? I’d love to hear it from you.”

Mist laughed, and with a wing, she pulled the sheet further up, covering them both. Still laying on Galatea’s chest, she crossed her forelegs together, and rested her chin

“Stratusburg. I’d have figured you were from Canterlot. Really not one to talk much, are you?” she purred, poking Galatea’s muzzle playfully. “Feh, what’s there to tell?” Mist groaned, pulling her hoof away. “Just an aspiring weathermare, who had a lil’ change of heart, and so, a career change.”

“Curious,” Galatea observed. “Surely, there’s more to it?”

“How you flatter me,” Mist said, shaking her head. “Really, though, I got nothing real interesting going on. I’m just me.”

Galatea rolled her eyes, almost involuntarily.

“If I didn’t find you interesting,” she said slyly. “I wouldn’t have said yes. Won’t you tell me, Snow Mist? A weathermare… I wonder, what’s a lovely weathermare like you doing in the Guard?”

Mist’s furious blush brought an amused smile to her face.

“Okay, college girl,” said Mist, flustered. “If you insist. I mean…” she began, biting her lower lip. “Well, yeah. I guess I kinda knew where I was headed to, y’know? Got my mark after a snowball fight– you really should’ve seen the cloud I made then. So I guess starting as a weathermare for the local factory after high school was a no-brainer.”

Mist shook her head.

“That was… what, uh, six years ago. Yeah. Six, heh,” Mist continued, chuckling. “Pretty standard job as it goes. You pull double-duty around Wintertime. Blizzards ain’t my thing, but I can produce heavy snowfall just fine.”

“Vanhoover’s record speaks for itself,” Galatea commented. “But I think I’ve found just the mare to thank for that.”

“Pfft,” Mist replied. “Yeah, guess so. But, y’know, it’s a team effort...” She paused, her forehoof tracing circles in Galatea’s chest fur. “It’s, well. I… always wanted to be part of somethin' more. Be good ol’, carefree Snow Mist. It’s hard to balance it out and… well, Pops always told me the old be-true-to-yourself shtick. And here I am. I guess I wanted the thrill of the Guard, too.”

“And how has this worked out for you?”

“Pretty fine, really,” said Mist. “Pay’s okay. Got my fair share of thrills. And hey, made it all the way to Sergeant, so that works out. Of course, Pops also gets worried bout his lil’ girl, no matter how many times I tell him that– okay, I guess Nightmare Moon kinda counts. Or that skirmish with them Shadows in Canterlot, all those years ago. That was way before we were born, though. Still, it ain’t never stopped him worrying, so I guess that’s just what parents do...”

She chuckled softly, just missing the small frown that crossed Galatea.

“So, yeah.”

Galatea chose to take a gamble. “And your scar?” she asked, quietly. “How much has this to do with your scar?”

Snow Mist stiffened within her embrace.

“… What?”

“The scar, behind your wing,” Galatea said, cupping Mist’s cheek and bringing her eyes to look right into hers, softly. “Please, don’t feel alarmed. You hide it well, but I noticed already back at the bar. The way you clutch your right wing to your barrel.”

Mist kept mum, only glancing back at where the rest of her, wings included, lay tucked under the blankets and cover of darkness. Gingerly, Galatea pulled away the sheets partway, exposing their bodies that lay huddled by one another, Mist lying on top as she’d been for most of the night.

The pegasus again glanced at her back, now visible, and at Galatea in turn. Some kind of decision came to be reached behind her eyes.

One wing stretched out slowly, deliberately, to reveal in full what she hadn’t been able to hide from Galatea. Beneath the wing, which lay at a slightly crooked angle and had done the whole time since Galatea laid eyes upon Snow Mist, a nasty gash cut through the pegasus’ hide. A raw, fleshy pink that must once have wept profusely, it was an eyesore to see against the cool blue of the coat.

Galatea allowed silence to speak for itself, until she felt it right for her to speak.

“What happened?” she said gently. “Was this with the Royal Guard?”

Mist shook her head with fervour. Her gaze was avoiding Galatea’s, but evidently, she did not like to look upon the scar, either. Her wing pulled back, concealing it once more.

“No…” Mist said. “No. It was… just a stupid factory accident.”

Blowing slowly through her lips, Galatea stroked the pegasus’s ear. “It’s alright…” she whispered. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah. Rather not talk about it.” Mist now did look up at Galatea. “Ugly, ain’t it?”

“It is not pretty to look at,” Galatea agreed. “And I understand why you wouldn’t want the reminder. But you shouldn’t feel ashamed of it. It isn’t a black mark on who you are.”

“Really?” said Mist. “I… Sorry, this is gonna sound stupid, but… if you were a guy, I… I’m not sure how I’d feel about ’em seeing.”

“Then I take it you’ve always kept it hidden from them? No-one else has ever seen it?”

“Apart from a few Guards, my factory mates… Pops…” Mist sighed. “No-one but you.”

Galatea gave her her moment’s silence, stroking away.

The art of healing had lost much of its mysticism, in the time which had passed as many and many more people came to live in cities such as this, the walls of which darkened her and Snow Mist’s little room now the lamp was out. But where the intimacy of a personal healer had been exchanged for the cool sterility of the hospital, there was greater understanding of medicine and the workings of the body.

And even so, not all hurts could be patched, not physically.

Only she, it seemed, remained spared lifelong by frailty, even the chips in her hooves continually healing themselves and healing again. Only she…

“The health service got it covered, it’s fine,” said Mist, filling the silence. “But… tidying up what it left behind, that’s… that’s not covered by ’em, and it ain’t obvious enough to buy me special treatment.”

“Did this influence your career change?” Galatea asked. "So that if anyone did see, they at least might assume you were injured in the Guard?”

“Maybe.” Mist shrugged, still uncovered. “But to tell ya straight, I think I was gonna change careers anyway, looking for adventure. The scar, it… was just kinda the cherry on top.”

Galatea let out a small sigh. Delicately, she lifted Mist's chin, so they were once more gazing into each other’s eyes.

Except that rather than maintain the gaze, here Galatea let her taller size, the build of her neck, work to her advantage, as she leaned past the surprised Mist’s cheek and ear, so that her lips brushed against the wing, and a little of the scar it concealed, before she pulled back.

Mist blinked at her. “Why’d you do that? Don’t tell me you think it’s beautiful now.”

“No,” Galatea replied, candidly. “It’s not. But it’s part of you.”

"Gosh, Gal…" Mist seemed flustered, unsure what to say. “I… ah… Well, glad ya don’t feel too sorry for me. Cos’ you know what? Mayhap I had a lucky break, quitting weather-making when I did. My old pals at the factory told me they had a pretty hectic month, what with Princess Celestia moving dates around and all. Can’t say I blame her, mind. That’s one way to welcome your long-lost sister back, aye?”

Quietly and not for the last time, Galatea cursed herself that she hadn’t foreseen this. That Celestia would go to such great lengths, over the course of several years, to bring their sister home.

She hadn’t been there to watch what occurred in the Castle of the Two Sisters, when the Elements of Harmony cleansed Luna of the darkness that was Nightmare Moon.

And now Sun and Moon were joined together as they should be, and her duty continued, always.

“Hey, Gal? You okay?”

She felt Mist’s hoof on her cheek. She looked down, seeing her partner, and there was only worry on her face.

“You, uh,” said Mist, clearing her throat. “You kinda zoned out there.”

“I see,” said Galatea. She placed her hoof on Mist’s own, gently pushing it down. “I had a thought.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Mist replied. There was a curious tilt to her head.  “You… wanna talk about it?”

“Perhaps,” Galatea said. There was no harm in telling a partial truth. “Mine sisters and I, we haven’t met in a while.”

“Really?”

“Yes, both of them.”

That much was true, though ‘a while’ held a different connotation for Galatea. She was there in Canterlot, watching her sisters at a press conference. Celestia had been nothing short of joyous, ever since the Element Bearers and she emerged from the Everfree Forest with a short blue alicorn in tow. Luna, by contrast, hadn’t looked all that comfortable, shifting in her seat, while Celestia eased the reporters’ concerns.

Perhaps she could have spoken to them, when all was quiet in the night…

“Huh,” said Mist. “What’re they like? And… uh, something happened?”

Galatea chewed on her lip, humming. “I left home, a long time ago… And when mine sisters were very young.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault. I… ensured they were taken good care of. I have mine duties to do, and though they won’t know it, as long as they are safe, I am content.”

“Still,” Mist said, frowning. “Do you remember what they’re like?”

“Not very,” said Galatea. “One was very fond of cake, and the other, she liked to count the stars.”

Unexpectedly, Mist let out a giggle. “Yeah, ‘not very’, I can tell,” she said, shaking her head. “Still… I don’t know, maybe you could… visit them?”

“I have thought about it,” she said. “Yet I shall be leaving, and mine time is limited. They are happy without mine presence, and that’s something I hardly see changing soon.”

“Always the busy mare, are you…” said Mist, wistfully. “I wouldn’t want you to have regrets, Gal. Harmony knows I got plenty. Argh. Sometime– sometimes I wish I could… go back, y’know. Maybe I should’ve stayed at the factory. Maybe Pops would be happier if I had, but well, what’s done is done. Maybe later, when I’m older.  I just don’t like having regrets. I don’t… I don’t want Pops or my old pals to remember me as a screw-up. I just wanted to help, that’s all I’m saying.”

She looked at Galatea, their eyes meeting.

“Nor would I want you to one day look back and… wish you could’ve been there. For your sisters. I don’t know for sure, but… you should have something to remember them by.”

Part of Galatea wondered if Mist somehow knew. Yet at the same time, her own story was perhaps something many had experienced in these lands. One of many, through the years, and throughout the world.

But Mist was here, and they were not. So Galatea moved to kiss her. This time, there was a certain drive behind it that she wasn’t sure was Mist’s. This was her moment. She shuddered, as Mist moved her body closer, still locked in the kiss. She traced a hoof down Mist’s back, feeling her warmth and gently stroking her wings. That itself brought a shudder, and a pleased noise from Mist. Galatea decided this was good.

They continued their rhythm as one, for what could have been hours and hours, but likely counted only for a few charged moments. Like many others, she would not see Mist again. Like many others, Galatea would remember.

Her lover broke away, panting. She wore a sad little smile. “You’re really leaving that soon, huh?”

Galatea sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

Mist groaned. “Just my luck,” she said. “Get to know someone like you, want a little fun for a night, then a little bit more. Then I forget it’s supposed to be just the one night. Funny, really. Ask one mare out as a joke and... and you find out you swing both ways.” She looked up, and giggled. “Or maybe it’s just you.”

“Maybe,” Galatea said, simply. Truthfully, she still wasn’t too sure if she was overdoing it. Attachments were attachments. Yet her duty superseded all. Still, there was no harm in leaving the waking world with a pleasant night.

“If I may– coming from a student here, Mist,” Galatea continued, stroking Mist’s mane gently. “While we look back on our closed doors, and look for an open door ahead, one ought to keep one’s hooves planted in the now.” She brushed Mist’s cheek. Her partner reached out to hold her forehoof. “This is who I know. You. How I wish to remember you. I look back, and I see you, as you are now. Perhaps you’ll change, as the days go by, I do not know. But I’ll remember you.”

She had spoken these words frequently, in various forms and dialects. But still she remembered each and every one whom she’d thus spoken to.

“Gal, I’m… I’m just another mare,” said Mist.

“Isn’t everyone just another face in the crowd?” retorted Galatea. “But they could be someone’s friend, a child, or a lover. Everyone has their worth. I believe that. I’ve met so many souls in mine life that I know it. And you are no different.”

“I– gosh, I don’t– I don’t know what to say. I don’t know, that’s just… really sweet of you.”

“It’s alright. We’ll part, true. But this much, I’ll remember. You’ve got a life to live, Mist. Don’t cling to mine memory. Keep it close to your heart, so you may look forward with an open mind. And a moment to cherish, always.”

Mist looked a touch conflicted, Galatea noticed. She stroked her mane, gently.

“C’mon, then, Gal,” Mist said, giggling. “We still got time, yeah. Gotta make the best of it...”

Teasingly, she moved to plant kisses upon her neck, eliciting a pleased shudder from Galatea. Snow Mist stopped to look at her, hopeful. Galatea contemplated it shortly, stroking the other’s mane with tender care. Then, she and her lover moved at the same time, and met halfway with a deep, passionate kiss.


* * * * *


Weekday mornings in Vanhoover were quiet, as Galatea preferred. She was sitting there with Snow Mist, glancing out the window. As a smaller city than most other urban areas, Vanhoover’s sidewalks weren’t crowded at all, the morning commute relatively less rowdy than in Manehattan or Fillydelphia.

Of course, there was always that mild discomfort she felt. Breakfast was just fine, with another easy-going, casual talk. Yet goodbyes were always the hardest. At times, for her partners, as well.

Mist carried herself well enough, thankfully. There wasn’t much they said to each other, once the Sun had risen in the morning, and they’d both got themselves cleaned up. Only the morning news, during breakfast, brought some distraction.

“... Trade’s gonna go up with Ryuppon, in a few years, they’re saying,” noted Mist, as Galatea turned her attention back to her. “Not sure why we bother with those creeps… They got deals with the Storm King, you heard? Even after he raided Farasi and Mount Aris, a few years ago. Kirin just ain’t like in the ol’ tales, no more… But, all in all, just another day.”

Their plates were both empty, now, and any talk was to keep themselves busy, just for a little moment longer.

“Aye,” Galatea said, simply. She glanced at the clock. “I expect that your next shift will start soon. Will you be able to explain why you spent a night away from the barracks? I hope your superiors won’t draw the wrong conclusions.”

Mist rested her chin upon her forehoof, sighing blissfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, shrugging. “Guess there’s no use putting things off.” She stood up. “C’mon. You gotta catch your train.”

Galatea followed suit, and off they went outside, greeted by the Sun. 

On the walk to the train station, rush hour had passed, leaving a few commuters mulling about. Only one was in Galatea’s thoughts now, and she stood by her, rubbing the back of her head.

Snow Mist had tied her mane back in her bun, with nary a strand out of place,

They stopped at the end of the street.

“Guess… guess this is… well, yeah,” said Mist. She reached out to part one of her bangs, uncovering her left eye. Braids weren’t easy to do, yet Galatea had found it quite nice of Mist to do hers on the morning after. 

“Thank you for the time, Mist,” said Galatea. “A night to remember, I feel.”

“You’re too kind,” Mist rebuked her lightly. “Gosh… yeah… heh.” She massaged her temple. “I... I know this is a one-time thing,” she said, longingly. “But... look, just to be crystal-clear between us, we won't be seeing each other anytime soon, right?”

“Yes,” said Galatea. “It was an exhilarating night, and I’ve enjoyed it. But here, we must part.”

"I figured, but... yeah, it was fun.”

Mist closed the distance between them, and kissed her gently. She parted soon, and flashed that bright smile of hers.

“This one stays with you too, I hope,” she said sweetly. “I don't like saying goodbyes, but I’ll remember you. And... good luck with your family. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.”

That wasn’t a certainty, Galatea knew. Her duty still stood. She nodded, if only for reassurance.

“I wish you the happiest of memories,” said Galatea, “And a merry life, Snow Mist.”

Their last hug was the longest.

With a nod to one another, they turned about, to go their separate ways. Yet, Galatea surprised even herself when she stopped, and glanced to where Mist headed in the opposite direction. Right as she did so, she saw Mist also frozen, their eyes meeting from each end of the sidewalk. Only for a moment, for Mist blew one final kiss, and broke off the stare with a happy skip.

Galatea touching the cheek where the kiss might’ve landed, feeling it heat up, and sighed.

‘Attachments remain irrelevant,’ she thought, clinically. ‘Duty comes first, and the Sun and Moon are joined together, once more.’

She walked under the morning Sun, her thoughts going from place to place, as life pursued its course in this city. Soon, she would be just another face in the crowd. 

No reason for her to stay awake much longer. Celestia would not need another sister to watch over her. She now had one right by her side, once again, one she’d knowb throughout her life. And young Cadance, the first new alicorn in three-thousand years, though yet to prove herself, remained a promising prospect for the future.

Although, there was the question of Celestia’s possible successor. The young unicorn mare who had wielded the Element of Magic, and freed her sister.

Galatea shook her head, and continued her trek, to where she would rest for a time. 

‘Alright, five years ought to do it,’ she thought, crossing the street. ‘Celestia’s master plan remains risky, if impeccably well-thought. With luck, I do not expect to be needed soon.’

Yet even as she went on, with thoughts of grand designs and future worlds, Galatea could not shake off the warmth and comfort, or the lingering feeling of Snow Mist’s gentle embrace, and her lips upon her own.

It would be a long sleep, but not a dreamless one, she hoped.

And so her watch continued.



> Epilogue
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Epilogue





Reality returned sooner to Snow Mist’s mind than she would have liked, when Winter Truce came to meet her in the cafeteria, and bombarded her with queries of where she had been.

“Yes, Cadet, I’m doing just fine,” she said. “Here I thought Icewind was clingy.”

“He’s clingy so long as he doesn’t understand his assignments,” said Winter stiffly. The white pegasus sighed, rubbing his temples. There was a certain fondness that Mist held for him – he was the sort to act a little standoffish, but also a reliable comrade. 

He sat down opposite her, frowning. His icy blue eyes, somehow, were colder than Galatea’s.

“He told me you went out on a date,” Winter said. “Ma’am.”

“Just call me Sarge, yeah?” said Mist, chuckling. “I swear, at the rate you’re going, you’re gonna be Captain of the whole regiment, give or take five years.”

“I try,” said Winter. He tapped the table. “I trust it felt good in the sack, then, Sarge?”

“Mind it, Cadet,” Mist rebuked him lightly. “I’m still your officer.”

“Right,” he said. “I’m… sorry, if I seem overly inquisitive. Safety first.”

“Easy there, we’re not at war, either. But yeah, I… I guess it went well.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Winter said, and his tone was sincere enough. “What was she like?”

“She talked funny, saying ‘mine’ instead of ‘my’, but… gosh, she was great. She listens, and she may act like she’s far away from it all, but she cares. I mean, you’d understand if you met her. Sure, she’s the tall, dark type, but… she’s cute. Heh, got some legs on her, I’ll tell ya. She’s… well, guess she’s once in a lifetime…”

Distant, polite yet passionate, experienced and warm – thinking of Galatea brought a wistful sigh.

Her thoughts trailed off when she saw Icewind arrive from behind Winter, a cup of coffee on hoof in one wing, and his cheeky grin betrayed what questions lay on his mind.

“Howdy, Sarge,” he said, informally. Winter winced. “How did it go?”

“Pretty good, I’ll say, Cadet,” Mist said by way of reply, with a smirk. “Pretty good…”

“Ah,” Icewind shrugged. ”Okay, then. This here round goes to you.” He sipped from his coffee, remaining standing. "Still. Think mayhap you’ll someday beat ol’ Winter for swinging upwards?" he asked, playfully punching the unamused Winter on the shoulder. “Ah, who am I kidding. When’s a Guard’s ever gonna go better than the Cap’n and Princess Hearts n’ Tiaras. Too good for the likes of us, eh?”

Mist just stayed silent and smiled, drinking from her own coffee. Unconsciously, she even felt her eyes throw a glance at the spot behind her right wing.

‘Well, Gal. Wherever you’re going, hope you find what you’re looking for…’

She had no doubt, of course, that she wouldn’t be seeing that strange, aloof mare anytime soon, not in a lifetime. Yet for Snow Mist, one brief encounter at Windy Peaks was all she’d needed. Her mind would linger on Galena, from the way her beautiful, icy-blue eyes looked at her, and the tranquil calm of her voice and words to the warmth of her coat, not just today, nor tomorrow, but for quite a few nights to come.