Following of the Sun

I was lead to believe the guest quarters assigned to me were by all accounts modest chambers, but when they were first shown to me I had to disbelieve quietly that these queenly halls before me were anything but reserved for the highest of royal dignitaries. There was a separate bath and shower which sparkled luxuriously, a study with ample desk space already decked out with scrolls and quills, and even a small lounge with a long, silky red couch. All were spacious but not empty; decorated with several landscape paintings in golden frames and beautiful flowers climbing along the cosy window sills. In fact, shortly after my arrival I had, quite by accident, chanced a look around the pink and purple petals, awed to be given such a first class view of the waterfalls breaking along the cliff side.

Even so, it could hardly be said that my awe was limited to the condition of my guest rooms. So often when I found myself in the domestic management wing of the palace had I stopped in my tracks to admire the polished walls glistening just out of reach of daylight, or even stared simply at the golden brass door knobs. It would not be unfair to suspect that even the most common of servants had to feel like they were chosen in some way. One could say then, that there was no such thing as a 'common' servant within the palace walls. And, as we walked through endlessly carpeted hallways without so much of a single dust particle, it wasn't altogether uncommon for Mrs. Dialset to remind me with a polite cough that I had forgotten where we were going; that I had been absorbed by an archway, a prized view of the royal gardens, or a gold leaf spiral pattern that had found its way onto the spacious ceilings far above.

Simply, I felt I had been swept away and brought into another world entirely: a world where there existed no disease, hunger, war, or death, and no need for slavery or crime. The place was alive and fresh in every corner; smooth and cool as birdsong and bright as the sunshine itself, more so than I had even imagined it to be years ago when I had first pictured to myself the interior of Princess Celestia's quarters. Now that the palace's walls actually surrounded me, the experience was bigger than I could possibly have foreseen.

The bed I slept in had the softest sheets I had ever dreamed of, and, when I had taken to travel through the palace I felt that this same softness had followed me effortlessly. No doubt it helped in instilling in me a tremendous respect for the domestic management for keeping the place so spotless and radiant. Mrs. Dialset was a sturdy mare in practically every sense of the word; stocky in frame and at least as strong in character as elsewhere. Often, when she felt a helping hoof had to be called for in installing one of the higher-up panels, she shamelessly summoned the nearest guards at her disposal, barking instructions and constantly calling for nothing but the highest level of precision. And when we had an excess of glue, gloss, and tape at the end of a job, she again converted herself from humble assistant to that of a ruthless commander, making sure that by the time we departed from the scene not a trace of the operation was left behind. She had taken it upon herself to introduce all of the cleaning staff to me, and even had me acquainted to one Mrs. Raven Inkwell, one of Princess Celestia's most trusted aides. To say that I felt welcome would've done her a huge disservice, then, as I don't believe there are accolades in the Equestrian language that could possibly do the staff, and Mrs. Dialset in particular, justice.

I can say with complete honesty that the work I had done in the Royal Canterlot Palace was as magical while I was there as it was when I looked back on it after; something I'm sure you'll understand I did frequently, oftentimes even by intent. I'm sorry if I appear to be regaling you intentionally with passages designed solely to fill you with envy, but I must be honest in every sense, and that certainly necessitates mention of the working conditions that had awaited me in the palace. The work I was finalising there I consider then to be the very best I have ever done. And, as I will detail to you soon enough, I was not alone in such assessments.

While I had spent most of my time in the palace working - permitting of course the odd distraction afforded to me by its architecture - I was by no means singleminded in my effort. Notably, the rich fragrances of hot cocoa beans and freshly creamed coconuts that regularly found their way to both the guest quarters and the dining chambers had done much to remind me of how privileged I was. The humble training I had begun in Fillydelphia, hammering away on steel and wood; tempering and chiselling pointlessly in my ardour. The brief tutelage of Master Southwind. It was unfathomable that, somehow, I had found myself where I was as much in spite of my labours as I had because of them. Although I in part felt undeserving in the face of such riches, the constant assurance of everyone around me in the domestic management had done much to instill in me the proud notion that since I was in the position I was in, and would be there for as much time as it was thought right for me to be, I owed it to everyone and whatever 'fate' there existed, that I enjoy my stay.

I almost forgot to mention there, when speaking of recurring distractions and thereby praising the domestic management, that Kismet did in fact write to me regularly, as he had promised he would. It was true that in these letters he had made passing reference to his work in Vanhoover, his early contributions to several diagnoses, and had on occasion mentioned a boy or girl that he had met, but by and large his main interest was in my stay in the Royal Canterlot Palace. He would dedicate paragraph after paragraph to formulate his elaborate questions. How were my, as he put it, "esteemed peers and royal assistants", how was my room, and how was the food? He even asked, only several days after I arrived, if I had begun to get used to sleeping on something other than the stiff mattress in my atelier. I regret to say that I didn't write back to him as often as I probably should have. In part, of course, I was quite busy even outside of the work I was doing, but also I confess that in some way I had felt very separate from his world: his world had become more distant somehow even than what the physical space would have suggested. His hospital and even his interest in my affairs in the palace seemed less somehow than they would have, had it not been for the environment I now breathed.

Upon reflection, I realise that I may have exaggerated and so made my part in the correspondence appear unnecessarily anti-social. What I meant to say was that although I was content, simply, to let several letters go unanswered so that I could combine his queries and answer them in a single response, and indeed did so with due care, my heart was not wholly in it. In many ways both the reading and the answering of his letters were the most mundane of all the things I did in the palace, and as such it was not altogether unlikely for me to sit in one of the corners of the royal gardens and read or write from there, my mind often taken away by its floral smells and dazzling sapphire dragonflies.

You might understand then, that when Master Southwind had visited the palace to check on me, I considered it a far more exciting affair. He was there, after all, in person, and his presence was quite necessary. Not as necessary, perhaps, as either of us had thought, as aside from a few technical details regarding the support weights of my panels and their surrounding walls, his actual assistance was very much secondary to the comfort that his approval brought me. Even that, though, had not been as significant as could be expected. Working within the palace walls had matured me, much in the way Kismet and myself had speculated amidst that bottle of wine that they would, and ripened both my artist's pride and confidence - aspects of the craft, I must stress, one should ever hesitate to undervalue or take to be that arrogant sort of egotism we're all trained to despise.

So, as I had said, I had become increasingly forward in my interaction with Master Southwind, so that at one point when I knew him to be watching me rinse the caulking of a freshly installed mosaic, I called out to him from the top of the ladder, 'So, is it true what they say about you crossing the San Palomino Desert?' Quietly I had laughed to myself, remembering the distinct discomfort I had experienced when we had walked along the Arthouse only a little over a month ago.

I had expected him to join my laugh, but the longer he maintained silence, the more pronounced to me became the sense that I had overstepped my bounds. Carefully I rubbed the panel, waiting for him to show some sign of having heard me, all but sure he was offended by my callous perpetuation of some gossip. For a brief moment, as I could dimly hear Mrs. Dialset conferring at the end of the hallway with who I assumed to be a subordinate, I felt very much ashamed to have confronted my teacher with something of such low designs. After what felt like a long time, he said, 'It is half-true.'

The ambiguity in his answer spoke to me in a great many ways. I was as much assured by it as I took it to be evasive politeness. Equal parts admission and omission. Pride and embarrassment I likely imagined, as nothing in his voice really ever revealed anything so impassioned. Nevertheless, they were there, appealing to me to ask the follow-up his answer necessitated. Perhaps with a little more reservation, I called to him, 'In what way is it true?'

Slowly then, he started telling me how it was that he ended up near the San Palomino Desert, at first saying little more than could also be found in topographical reports or personnel accounts. Gradually, however, he started talking more freely, and I found myself gazing through the stained glass panels I had set in place, almost walking along the gardens outside; cantering among the grass sculptures in a great array of sun-spotted colours, fancying myself on some equally great adventure: travelling with the express permission of the Royal Sisters and under direct command of Princess Celestia herself.

I won't tell you now every single thing he had told me then. My hesitation to do so in part is because I can in no way be expected to remember everything of his story, and even if I could, it would certainly be too long a story for me to write within my own. (Verily, by the time he had finished, the sun had set and Mrs. Dialset had to trot along the hall in order to remind us of dinner.) But also, there was something personal in his recounting to me his story of debt and persistence that obliges me to consider his rights to tell his stories himself, and solely to whom he wishes would know them in full detail. I will, however, tell you a few rudimentary points and phrases that stood out; stood out, in fact, so much that I can still recall them precisely.

When he had seen the Great Obsidian demonstrate his magical ability to transmute stone and glass into any shape or form, he had desired instantly to possess also some semblance of these spells. Southwind, so he told me, had a great knack for learning obscure magic, and a certainty was with him that if he were instructed by such a great master, he too would be able to at least pull off something of the degree he possessed. Before he continued his story, he then sat down on a nearby satin-cloaked stool and explained to me how his heritage had always had a rich history with precious minerals, both in working with them as in honouring the gift itself in supplying their generations with power and wealth. He seemed to think this was essential for me to know, and in so treating it, mentioned only the most elementary of information. He was largely detached in his way then, and I had found my attention wavering despite my best intentions, when quite suddenly he said, 'The Great Obsidian did not in fact care one bit about my precious heritage. Had not in fact cared one bit about me. He said to me, "Fool! You know nothing of true magic!" and the gash that ran across his face seemed vicious and knowing.'

There was such venom in his voice, that for a moment, I had thought Master Southwind had brought this Great Obsidian into the palace, for I had never heard him speak in anything but the soberest, sleekest of ways. It appeared to me then that he had intended for me to be as much immersed in his story as he was, and whatever conduct he had assumed over the years was thought to be of a lesser importance. He continued for a moment to stress how much he had tried to plead with the wizard, emptying every reserve at his disposal. He was quick to offer him access to his father's connections, had also offered him all the money he had and would ever make, and finally, he offered the gratitude of a life in complete service to the great master.

'But,' (said Master Southwind), 'the Great Obsidian swung his black robes around him in absolute disrespect of my offers, saying with palpable distaste, "You know not what you offer, nor what you want. You are smaller than a drop in the ocean - no, you are not even that. Before me you are undeserving of the slightest moment of time. You are pathetic! You are not even nothing. If you wish to grovel, I say to you, you are permitted to grovel in only one way. Go, walk across the entirety of the desert, North to South. That is all I will say to you."

'And so he disappeared into the San Palomino Desert south of the rogue's town. I was astonished and disheartened; felt as if I was a bug crushed underneath the boots of its owner. I was so sure, you see, that he would see how committed I was; how thankful I would be if he would but teach me a shred of the magic he possessed. In my humiliation I had decided that the wizard, however powerful he may have been, was greedy. Greedy in that he would not wish to share his magic with anyone, however much they would be in need of it, or however much they wished to know it. I was determined to follow his path the very next day. I purchased water and hired a guide, leaving the bars and black market places far behind me, sure in the knowledge that I would prove to him that he was wrong about me.'

Many hardships awaited his journey through the desert. As you'll expect, he was altogether not built to withstand the intense assault that the sun brought during the long days, and it seemed to him to take ages to cover the distance towards each hill that followed the next. His guide abandoned him with citations, excuses, and a very fast lope. He also took most of his water and money, and it wasn't long until he had found his hooves burning into the sand through the very soles of his boots, incapable of lifting them off the ground sufficiently. He soon grew cold and could barely focus his thoughts and eyes to determine which way he was crawling. 'At some point,' Master Southwind said, 'I did not know if I was walking or standing still, sleeping or awake. Whether the slopes before me were real or a memory; a figment of some idea I once held near. How much time had passed I did not know, for I could no longer keep track of such things. I was an ant plodding without any burden of knowledge beyond the will to move, if indeed I was moving, forward... whatever forward it was that I tread upon.'

As he neared the climax of his story I had climbed down towards the hoof of the ladder, listening attentively, for I had after all, all but finished the work of the day. So it was that when he described to me the arrival of the Gryphtures I could see, through his gesticulations, precisely how the black brood menaced before him. As he put it: 'To say that the creatures attacked me was not to do justice to the ways of this clan. "It's barely awake, no sport at all," I could hear one of them shriek from somewhere behind, another's dagger-like talons wobbling before me, ever approaching and moving away; eyes as dark jewels, scrutinising and pitiless. "You! Do you hear me? I would very much like to exenterate a liver. I do like liver! Have you a liver, little sweet lost horse thing?" Slowly I had felt them swarm me, pecking, screaming and clawing into my skin, and I could do nothing to defend myself. I tried, of course, to recollect some spell that would serve me here, but I could not think of anything but being eaten alive, alone in the San Palomino Desert. I don't remember, but I do believe I cursed the place wholly and entirely.'

As you would expect from such a story, he then told me how the Great Obsidian rescued him. He told me that only later did he realise, upon leaving the shelter of his tent, what the wizard had done. 'All of the sand, as far as I could see had become solid ice, barely giving way under the harsh light of day. An icy smoke came to me, but at the same time, the sense of heat had begun to return to me, and I found myself shivering and sweating.

'When at last I had begun to thank him, after he had nursed me back to consciousness and fed me dried fruits and water, he told me, a harsh grimace stuck to his features, "Do not tell me of what my magic has or has not done for you. Already you have spoken thus; equated my worth, in every manner fashionable, to some distant power wished only to be understood and mastered. There are no shortcuts. No deserts you can walk through to get what you want; no money to purchase more than bread; no inheritance more than stone, pestle and mortar. There are no spells to learn that what you wish to know."

'It took me many years as his apprentice to understand what he meant when he said those things. And still, if you were to ask me today to explain it to you, I am not exactly sure that I could. I can however, practice our craft and hope to guide, in some small way, students such as yourself.' He stood up from the stool, sweeping it in some manner he had made his habit, and I do suppose that that was around the time that I had heard Mrs. Dialset's approach from across the hallway. When she had told me of dinner, and I had thanked her, I had found myself thinking again of how privileged I was, and how much I had to be thankful for. I am sure it was my smile that made him say to me then, in a voice that almost seemed to mock the deep enunciation to which I had grown accustomed: 'So, you can tell that the story, as the rumour goes, is about half-true. I had not in fact made it much further than about a third's way across.'

It had often seemed funny to me, long thereafter, that such a string of events could harbour such strict contrasts. Much like the way he had spoken of his tale of suffering, and without even trying to do so, had rendered it rife with humour. In fact, even as I walked alongside him towards the dining hall, I had thought again of the black cube we had once circled around in the Arthouse. I had found myself wondering if there was anyone who would look at that piece of art in a manner similar to how I experienced Master Southwind's story of crossing into the San Palomino Desert.

The few days after Master Southwind's visit were some of the very brightest I have ever been fortunate enough to have. That artist's sense of pride upon finishing my work was swelling up within me, and I felt that completing it had in many ways fulfilled the goals I had set out for myself many years ago when I had started my education. Those years of technical labour of the crafts school were behind me, and even, the actual art itself was behind me, so that I could now enjoy the feeling that a personal promise was kept, and I had every reason, or even every need, to be satisfied with what I had accomplished.

I had considered already to write a letter to Kismet - his two latest letters had gone unanswered, so certainly it wouldn't be out of place - when Mrs. Inkwell had brought me a direct message from the princess. She had appeared early in the day, unannounced, and when I had opened the door she had stood there just one step into the room in a very formal manner. I had considered the possibility that she was going to tell me that several of the pieces had proven dissatisfactory, but soon after I learned that this was simply her way of doing things: she had felt it her obligation to bring messages from the princess free from flourish or other distractions, and did her utmost to convey the message word for word with a keen attention to its spirit.

She said, 'the Princess wishes to express to you how greatly she values your dedication, your attention, and your sensitivity in completing your work in the palace. Particularly she sent me to tell you about the mosaic of her six friends, which she appreciates in many ways difficult for me to convey. She told me it had made her smile.'

Overcome with tears, I very nearly hugged her. And in the second before I stopped myself, I had already imagined squeezing her tight. Raven smiled both gracious and hesitant, and I knew that she didn't know what to do if I had indeed embraced her. It may be difficult to understand why I had reacted so emotionally to what was, in many ways, a very logical following of my completing the commission for the Royal Canterlot Palace, and I'm sure also that the general art of such messages is something that might belong to the past. But to me, it was as if Celestia herself had summoned me to her court - or, no, she had flown to Fillydelphia and paid me a visit. Every word that Raven dictated to me, I heard spoken from the princess's mouth; every punctuation she had uttered made me picture, effortlessly, the princess pacing in her throne room with expert grace. When her aide touched her spectacles, I saw Celestia nodding sagely, and, when the message was finished, vividly I pictured a grateful smile; a smile invented solely for me. Such was the imagination I possessed when it came to the princess's charity, that I could not but cry, feeling altogether undeserving, and yet, also, feeling like I had been lifted up; lifted to a higher calling.

Mrs. Inkwell then told me, as formally as before, certainly, but not with the voice that made me picture the princess, what was to be my offer in further service to the Royal Sisters and Equestria itself. She told me, verifying the details briefly via a notebook, that if I wished to accept the offer I would be taken to various venues across Equestria and beyond the Crystal Mountains, where a "challenging variety of work was to be done". She said, 'You would be duly compensated for many difficult, intricate pieces that would often require inventiveness in very unusual circumstances. We can't promise even that this will be altogether without danger, or that the work will be truly respected by everyone in each location you will travel to, but it will be arranged as much as it can be, that if you were to accept this offer, that all the materials and assistance you could ever think of will be provided for. I'll see to it myself.'

Quietly I watched her, half-expecting her to say more, and half-expecting her to leave. She then asked, simply, 'Do you accept?'

I immediately jumped over the tea table to kiss her on the cheek. Overcome with joy, I laughed, 'I accept! I accept!' Although it was impossible for me to then regain fully my composure, nonetheless I coughed once and then looked as seriously as I could, no doubt appearing comical at best, and I said, 'Of course, I accept.'

For days I was very much in a rush of disbelief, and far too often I had to tell myself that what I was doing, and the ground itself that I trod, was very much real. I spoke with many ponies who worked within the palace, crafting itineraries and, in a sense, shopping for supplies; shopping with the exception that there was no money, no inventory, and no doubts regarding their delivery. Therefore, if I wanted raw salts of every precious mineral ever discovered, I could say so - by word or note - certain that they would be waiting for me at exactly the time appropriate in precisely the condition requested. Often I found myself gaily trotting through the royal gardens in ways I would've found quite unbecoming previously, quite aware that I had become silly.

It was such a frame of mind I was in when Mrs. Dialset had found me in the hallway, lost in the process of verifying that I had indeed finished every single window I had done. In part of course I wanted to make sure that there was no hard to remove particle of dirt or dust in some corner or other, and that there were no mistakes I had overlooked that I would have to correct at a later time, but also there was a part of me - a part I'm quite certain realised that no mistakes had been made - that simply wished to enjoy, if but for a moment, my own hoofwork for what it was.

Mrs. Dialset had brought with her another letter from Kismet, and soon I was reminded that in the events of the past few days I had repeatedly forgotten our correspondence. I also had been so busy that whenever it did come to mind, each time I ended up postponing my intention to write to him. As a result there was so much that I had to write about that I could probably spend a whole night on it. Thanking Mrs. Dialset, I pocketed the letter and resolved to read it before the day was through.

That day I had on several occasions felt myself to be in violation of some code of the palace. You see, I had very much completed my work, no matter how much I would try to pretend to myself that I had not, and what little was left to do regarding my upcoming work all resided in the future. It was hard to shake a sense of being a little out of place among the stoic guards and hard-working cleaners, the gardeners and the cooks; all of the Royal Canterlot Palace staff was busy, in many ways similar to how I had been busy before, but my own time within the grand walls was fast running out. Still, then, I held onto Kismet's letter, perhaps fancying the idea that reading it had become some such task as well now.

With due diligence, perhaps emulated from ponies such as Mrs. Dialset and Mrs. Inkwell, I tasked myself in my wandering around the palace to think of things I would write about. When I rolled myself in the white sheets of the bed, I remembered Master Southwind's story, certain that he had divined the offer that would await me, and in some way perhaps imparting onto me even a sense of his unshakeable dignity. It was a feeling that said that, regardless of the position that awaited us, we had to remember and strive constantly to complete the tasks ahead of us with the same resolve that had set us on our journey long ago.

I resolved also to enjoy, as before, every bite of lunch that was brought to me. I made notes to myself to mention in my letters also the littler things, things he would not have thought of, that would make my experience in the Royal Canterlot Palace seem as real to him as it had been to me. The croissants crumbled, nearly evenly, with the sound of a purring cat; the way the summer breeze floated through the arched hallways, and never was too wild or timid - all of these details I would mention in my letter later that night.

Not too long after that, as I again found myself walking through the hallways of the palace, I considered for the first time the immediate journey in front of me. Certainly, I had made arrangements already regarding my forthcoming appointments, but somehow, they had not seemed yet to be truly real. It was difficult to consider my future while I was staying in the palace, but perhaps because I would be departing a few days after, that enchantment had started to wear just enough to be considering for the first time, as I had just mentioned, my next destination.

North of Canterlot, I had learned, resided a little farmer's town called Cherrywell, and it was to this town that a coach was set to take me in a few days. For the town's square I was to design and oversee the installation of a crystal-glass memorial centrepiece. As I walked along the royal gardens, I found myself gradually becoming more apprehensive of this task. To the townsponies of Cherrywell I was no one in particular, strolling in, as it were, into their town to present a work of art that would aspire to do their purpose justice. What's more, my principal disciplines were hardly geared exactly towards glass blowing abstract art.

And yet, to avoid failure, I reasoned, was not my main concern. I had familiarised myself in the study on Cherrywell's one-hundred-and-sixty year history. Among all their houses and stores that had remained for so many years, there had not been one building that stood out and would allow for the stained glass mosaic I knew I could do. It was then a simple cause of doing what I could to respect the great fire their town had been through seventy years ago; to pay tribute to their cause to rebuild and honour the memory of those that were lost, known to them or not. I felt myself strengthened by the notion that in some curious way, I represented the Royal Sisters, and thus it was that perhaps my contribution was not to be so much the physical product, but rather the display of intention and gratitude behind the process of designing the centrepiece.

Those were my thoughts when I had decided to sit on one of the royal garden's benches and at last take out Kismet's letter from my pocket. Although I took my upcoming plight very seriously, I felt it necessary to pace myself and take whatever relaxation the palace offered me in those last few days, knowing that through the peace it offered, I would be in exactly the right frame of mind to do what lay ahead of me. However, when I opened the letter and scanned the opening phrases, a beguiling wave of severity came over me. He opened his letter by greeting me with my full name, something that in all the letters he had written to me he had never done. In fact, I could not recall him ever referring to me by my full name. But, sure enough, as if I had become some new form of life, that's how he addressed me at the start of his letter.

Even then, as I weighed those first sentences, a fear came to me; indeed it had swooped in entirely to me unannounced, unexpected as an owl diving towards its prey in the middle of a summer's day. I felt myself slowly shut out the song of birds around me, so that for a moment, I could focus on the letter I held in my hooves.

The further along the message I crept, the faster I would read and the more confused I had become, so that by the end of it I had felt a hopelessness course through me, wondering which part of his letter I had missed or had failed to read properly. For all that, his letter was hardly a garble of words, nor did it seem written in haste. It was not so much longer than his other letters had been, nor had he been unclear in his language. No, his hoofwriting was as diligent as it had always been, and it was clear upon re-reading it several times, that I had not misinterpreted any vital part of it and had not skipped some crucial sentence. Nevertheless, it was the way it was written itself; the style normally so winsome and inquisitive had somehow twisted into something else, much like how in his salutation I had become "Dear Lily Crystalline". All of this was what told me even before I grasped the contents of his letter, that no more letters would come after it. Particularly, I felt this was expressed in his second-to-last paragraph, which I will copy below:

"The process will not be too easy, I'm sure, and there are many procedures to follow, both when it comes to work and the bureaucracy itself, to say nothing of the unspoken rules with such arrangements. As we're set to be married, likely many more things will pop up that will need our attention, and even when the ceremony is completed, many more concerns will somehow reveal themselves to us. In some ways, Lily, it might not be very much different from the times when Mettle and the other students had put up those hindrances for you, but we will try our best to overcome them as well as you have on those occasions."

He went on then for a short while after that, reiterating his best wishes regarding my work for the Royal Sisters, before politely signing his letter in much the same way as it had begun. The cadence of his letter carried with it a sense of the knowledge of all that had come before, much like he had referenced the ateliers in that paragraph. And as I had verified this completion, much of that finality that I found in his letter carried over onto me. I found myself struck by a deep sense of loss - not the sharp pain one felt when a close friend died; not even the intensity of losing a parent or sibling. Rather, I found myself slowly turning inward, but as opposed to my youthful fantasies, this time it wasn't at all my intention to do so. I felt like I should do something; reach out in some way; speak, scream, or listen and cry. But so soon after reading his letter it had already ceased to be of the present time.

When I heard the voice of Mrs. Dialset nearby, I had already spent an incalculable time locked in an indescribable numbness. It was not so much that I did not care; rather, it felt like I had grown suddenly tired of myself, and that my frustrations were as blank canvases and grey evergreens; so unlikely to place, that it did not even matter whether I knew exactly where they had sprung from. They were part of the same remote colony as the letter, as firmly of the past as bad candy and classroom sketches.

It had become dark then and Mrs. Dialset, having missed me at the dining table, had taken it upon herself to come looking for me. Politely I had explained that I wasn't feeling hungry, and expressed how thankful I was for her concern. It would probably not surprise you to hear that her consideration extended also to the courtesy of taking my reply with a notable respect, soon returning me again to the darkness of the royal gardens, though I regret to say that my state of mind was not quite suitable for appreciating its midnight beauty.

At one point, perhaps shaken by a passing moth that had nearly entangled itself in my mane, I told myself that I had things to get ready for tomorrow. But although I had thought of Cherrywell, meeting with Mrs. Inkwell, and indeed, felt in some way again the purpose I had found myself in, I could not bring myself to stand up from the bench. So it was that I could not go to my room and sleep, but I was equally unable to think about anything in particular. I scanned separate sentences, sifting them once more, but there was no longer anything there beyond the words themselves. Before my eyes they faded and I relived the travels of letters to and from the palace, guided whimsically through roads of stars and planets, rows of stairways and rainy villages. So I stared before me in this incongruity, the chilly wind brushing my nape.

There comes a time in such a state that one finds the inevitable encroach upon them. It felt as if some great battle had passed, and that as the faint glow of dawn crept into the sky, soon I would have to pick myself up, leaving the sores and splinters of defeat for the coming day. In spite of this awakening, it did not at first quite register to me when a soft voice behind me beamed through the silent darkness: 'Hello there. Might I ask who you are?'

Gasping, and reaching through my mane, I turned my head, hastily getting to my hooves and about to bow low. My lips quavered and I forgot for a moment anything that had previously crossed my mind. But even in the disconnected state I was in, I realised how disrespectful it would be to carry myself like a distant servant... verily, I felt closer than I had felt to anyone real or otherwise. Simply bowing my head, I said, 'Your highness. I'm Lily Crystalline, your highness.'

Slowly then, she swerved around the bench and smiled at me until I felt compelled to look up and meet her eyes, no doubt returning her gracious smile rather awkwardly. It was her smile. The smile I had always pictured in my head. Gently she said, 'Of course. I understand you are the talented artist responsible for the beautiful stained glass windows.' She approached me, and I felt almost ashamed of looking at her - I could tell she was considering something. It dawned on me even in those seconds that not many would be able to tell that within that bright composure she was carefully thinking of what more to say to me. Part of me wanted to ask her why she was perusing the royal gardens at night, but even if I had found the boldness to do so, I doubt I would have managed it.

Then she smiled again. Differently now; more pronounced somehow. It was a smile of long ago sweet memories; a smile of singing naked in the rain; a smile of attic treasure hunts. She said, only a hoofstep away from me, 'I'm sorry for disturbing your thoughts, Lily.' Suddenly I realised I had been crying. Tears now had found their way along my nose, their bitter taste passing my lips as my throat had become swollen and harsh. My neck ached, and my hooves were suddenly throbbing with pain. The strain of the one posture I had been in had finally found its way to my senses, and I felt unable to stop crying. I had not the hope of knowing what to tell her. I was too small; too little. Smaller still than the drop of water Master Southwind had mentioned in his story.

That was when a warmth came over me. The princess put her hoof around my shoulder, pressing close to my neck. All that she said then was in her eyes, gentle as the first day of spring. Her hoof was as pearlescent petals yet unyielding as the earth itself. I nearly choked, trying to speak. 'I-I love you,' I said, scarcely able to consider what it was that had sprung from my mouth. Even still, there was a wisdom within her touch itself that made me wish time would stop; made me wish I could remain within her reach forever. But I knew she could not let it be so, and when she squeezed me; squeezed me with more knowledge and strength than all the books in the world, already I suspected in some unfathomable way that she would simply stroll away, rounding the corner along the jasmines and roses. No haste in her step; no need to explain herself. And within that understanding, there was no need even for me to explain myself: she knew, as certain as the night and day and all the days still to come.

For years I have thought of that instance, wondering about what I had said then. Or, to be more exact, I had wondered what would have happened if she had come across me at another time; had met me at a time when I would have been able to think and speak without such strain and confusion. I had even considered, many years thereafter, that if that would have been so, she would not have found me at all. But, even still, the strongest thought I had developed over all of this time was also the simplest: it didn't matter. She could have spoken for days or I could have been as eloquent as I've ever been, still those would be but glimpses of a breeze, where she was all of the air; all of the everything.