Your mother proudly smiles down at you in your cradle. Your father huffs, standing next to her. You burble and coo at them, a foal not yet a week old.
"He will be a marvelous son to you," your mother says lovingly, her azure eyes pools of love and warmth. She is a cream-colored mare, her mane wavy and golden. The pregnancy was hard on her, and the places beneath those motherly eyes are tired and hollow. Your father huffs again gruffly, but nods. He is a brown Earth pony of solid stock, his eyes dark as the soil he tills. On his flanks are the symbol of his passion and talent—a fertile fruit tree, its bounty abundant on its branches.
"He will serve the Princess well," he replies. Though his words seem harsh, there is affection in his tone. Your father pauses a moment, then nuzzles your mother. She blushes. "You have done well, too."
She had, and loves you with all her heart, but the sickness takes her not long after your first winter. She never fully recovered from your birth—the doctor says to have made such a strong young colt, it took everything she had. Your father is devastated, and he moves from your home on the outskirts of Canterlot to a small cottage on the castle grounds. Celestia, hearing of your mother's passing, grants the home to him, expressing her deepest condolences.
Your father leaves you in the charge of the kitchen fillies during the day while he tends to his duties. As the Royal Gardner of Canterlot Castle, the verdant greens of the palace grounds are his sole responsibility. You grow up among pots and pans, playing with bits of dough and pretending the skirt of the head kitchen mare is a tent—much to her chagrin—until, one morning, you are preparing to head to the castle and your father stops you.
You are older now, seven summers, and the years of single fatherhood have left their mark upon your father. He is still a handsome stallion, but his mane and tail are beginning to streak with gray, and his muzzle has developed grizzling and wrinkles you had not noticed before.
"Not today," he says, motioning for you to set your satchel of wooden toys on the table.
"Why?" you ask, not defiant, but curious.
"Today, you come with me."
Excitement rushes through your tiny body, and your tail swishes back and forth. You never get to spend time with Father; he is always too tired at the end of the day to do much other than ask how you are, feed you your supper, and put you to bed.
"Our family has an important task," he explains, pushing the door to the small cottage open. You trot outside, bouncing in your exuberance. "A serious responsibility," he adds firmly. You cease your bouncing, but cannot control your tail.
"What is that, Father?" you ask, following him down the path leading to the castle proper.
"You know I am a gardener."
"Yes, Father. For the Princess."
"In and of itself, the title is nominal." His voice is gentle, and strong. You hope someday to grow up to be just like him.
"But you are the Royal Gardener," you counter, confused. Your father chuckles.
"A title is just that—a word. Remember that, my son."
You nod. "Yes, Father."
"Now, what does a gardener do?"
"Help... things grow?" you try, sensing there is more to this question than just the obvious answer.
"Anypony can make things grow. A gardener makes things flourish."
The word emblazons itself in your young brain. Flourish... It makes your flanks tingle in a funny, magical way. Your skin itches beneath your creamy brown coat, but it is not entirely unpleasant.
As you follow your father into the gardens, you pause to take in how lush and green the grounds are. You knew your father worked hard, but to see it at his side is a wonder. Your flanks tingle more.
"This is simply the beginning," he says, smiling at the way your eyes dart from bush to tree to plant to flower. "The heart of our family lies within. Come, my son."
Obediently, you keep pace beside your father, taking three cantering steps for every one of his.
"How can it be more beautiful than this?" you ask.
"You shall see."
As you pass ponies on the palace grounds—guards, messengers, servants, and citizens—they do not acknowledge your father. This begins to bother you.
"Father?" you whisper, your voice just loud enough for his ears alone. He looks over and down at you as you walk, his dark eyes intense. "Why does no one greet you?"
"I am just the gardener."
"But everything is green because you do well!"
"Some things are appreciated in silence," he replies. You do not like this answer, but accept it for what it is. Your father has never been wrong before, and you have no reason to begin to doubt him now.
Your walk brings you through the garden's labyrinth, the hedges neatly trimmed, the stone path free of debris and weeds. You long to ask where your journey ends, but the hushed anticipation keeps you silent.
At the center of the labyrinth, your father steps to the side, and smiles.
The rose garden is an ocean of color. Reds, pinks, whites, and yellows decorate the shoulder-high trees—hundreds of them grouped in artful arrangements of threes and fours. Your small mouth falls open, and there are no words you can bring to mind that describe how marvelous the secret garden seems.
"Follow me," he says simply.
You do, inhaling deeply, the sweet soft scent of the roses filling your nostrils. Your flanks tingle and itch terribly, but the sights and smells bombarding your senses overwhelm the discomfort.
This walk is not as long. At the heart of the rose garden stands a single, naked bush—thorny, black, and menacing. You recoil instantly at the ugliness.
"This bush is as old as Celestia's reign."
"It's awful!" you exclaim. Your father reaches out and bops your muzzle with his forehoof. You wince, crying out.
"Look closer," he instructs. Frowning at him, you obey, the gnarled branches and sharp thorns making you apprehensive.
On your second inspection, you notice the bush is not bare—minuscule leaf buds sit frozen in development, and the branches themselves shimmer in the sunlight. As your muzzle gets closer, you think you see one of the buds begin to uncurl. Blinking, you look again, and realize you have been holding your breath.
As you exhale, it brushes the leaf bud. Your flank begins to burn. You whimper, suddenly afraid. The burning becomes more intense as the bud starts to grow—larger and larger—until it finally *pops!* into a fully formed spot of green on the barren bush.
You hear your father gasp, and you spin around. He has tears in his eyes.
"Father?" You whimper again, still feeling frightened. "Father, my flanks hurt."
"You are my son," he says, his voice thick and low. You recognize the tone as pride. Titling your head, you look back at your flanks, and start to grin.
Shimmering amidst the soft creamy brown of your coat is a bright green seedling, two leaves pushing their way up towards the sun, surrounded by tiny dazzling sparks.
Father passes on in your twenty first summer. You have been working at his side now for 14 seasons and know the intricacies of Canterlot's gardens—when to trim, when to water, when to allow the plants to grow wild. It will be hard without him, but you want to make him proud.
You keep his schedule. When Celestia brings the first golden rays of the sun over the horizon, you rise from your bed, still in the modest cottage gifted by the crown to your small family. You have proven to be exactly the gardener your father was, and then some. Under your care, the grounds have never been more verdant.
The mysterious rose bush at the heart of the garden's labyrinth has even begun to bloom.
You will never forget the day you first saw it, gnarled and withered and terrifying. You smile wistfully, recalling your father's pride at seeing you earn your mark.
"Never let this die," your father had told you, indicating the strange plant. "If you keep one thing alive in this garden, be it this bush."
You have. More than anything, you have devoted your spare time to encouraging that particular plant to blossom and flower. It is stubborn; the leaves took years to mature after that first unfurling.
When Nightmare Moon's spell was broken and Celestia rejoiced at the return of her sister was the day you noticed the first rosebud. You nearly wept with joy. Here was proof that your efforts had not been wasted, that this bush was indeed worth saving. The branches had lost their bizarre black sheen years back; it was one of the first changes you noticed during your rounds after your father passed, but this was life! This was flourishing.
It is not to say you neglect the rest of the gardens or grounds. You are devoted to your work in a way that puts the past members of your family almost to shame. It consumes you. You have never met the Princess personally, but you have heard she adores the roses at the labyrinth's center. You wish only to ensure she has a place of beauty and tranquility she can escape to.
Celestia... You paused in your work, the sun warm on your back, and reflect.
You have seen her walk the gardens—a vision in white and pastels, her mane an ethereal waterfall of soundless motion and shimmering wonder. How could one pony be so beautiful? She radiates kindness and love. When you hear her speak, her voice gentle, behind it the weight of eons; you only wish to make her happy.
You long to hear her speak to you. Just to say your name... and you could die content.
When the Princess' student Twilight leaves for Ponyville, you notice Celestia's visits to the rose garden become more regular. You never wish to disturb her during these moments; instead, you fall silent, watching the alicorn goddess in her quiet reverie.
What does an immortal ponder, you wonder?
She makes your heart hurt.
One evening, you are tending the roses very late. Luna has already raised the moon, but other chores have kept you from the flowers and you cannot bear to let a single day pass without ensuring that special bush receives the love and care it needs.
"You are a stubborn thing," you tell it, sighing, patting the soft dirt around its base. The bush does not reply. You snort, laughing at yourself. The single rosebud has grown bigger and bigger since the day you noticed it; when it finally blooms, it will be a marvelous specimen indeed.
"I have never seen that particular bush so green."
You spin around, startled, and come face to face with Princess Celestia.
Your heart races and blood thunders in your ears. You lower them, and raise them again, suddenly very aware of your grubby state and Earth pony body.
"Did I startle you?" she asks. You nod. "I am deeply sorry. I have seen you here before... You are the gardener, yes?"
"Yes, Princess." You find your voice. She smiles at you, and it is like the sunrise.
"Why are you here at so late an hour?" Celestia steps past you to inspect the rosebud. You stammer for a moment. She chuckles warmly. "You may speak freely. I am not here in any official capacity."
"That bush is special," you manage.
"I know," she answers. You blink. Celestia leans in to sniff the rosebud with her delicate snowy muzzle. "It has been here since I was a foal."
"It is hard to tend," you offer, standing nervously next to her. She flutters her wings at her sides. The sound is soothing. "I have tried to get it to bloom, but the bud remains closed."
"You have done more with this bush than any gardener before you," she replies kindly. You blush. You are in love; you are sure of it now. "I find solace here... Thank you."
You bow deeply.
When you rise, she is gone.
You see her in the gardens still from time to time, but nothing like that evening happens again. You wish you knew how to approach her, but you are a lowly gardener, and she is a Princess of Equestria.
The roses become your life. Every spare moment you have, you spend in the gardens, ensuring the petals are dewy and free of pests. The labyrinth's heart has never been more fragrant or verdant in the history of Canterlot.
The bud on the strange bush grows ever larger, and the leaves fill out the scraggly plant over the years. You and the plant mature together; your strength mirrored it its formerly barren branches.
Towards the end, it looks almost like a normal rosebush.
The day you fall ill is the saddest of your life. You struggle to rise from your bed —an old stallion now, your bones creaking and chest rattling with a cough that threatens to consume you. You have never missed a day of work since taking over for your father.
You cannot get up.
The doctor is called. He comes and goes. You are given a short time to remain on Equuis, and you reflect back on your life.
No wife. No foals. Just the roses.
For her.
Your vision is growing darker with each shallow breath you struggle to draw in.
"The Princess is coming," the nurse pony says gently. Her voice is soft and kind, like her face.
You cannot hear her. The sand in your hourglass has trickled its final grain. You have slipped into the Great Beyond, where even Princess Luna cannot reach. Your dreams now are eternal.
Celestia stands at your bedside, her magnificent wings folded tightly against her lithe frame. Her ears are lowered in distress. She knows she has come too late.
"Was he a friend, my Princess?" the nurse asks gently. Celestia shakes her head, her lovely mane swaying back and forth like an ethereal curtain. Her eyes are moist, shimmering with loss and sadness. She is ageless, and just as beautiful as the day you spoke to her in the gardens.
"I never even knew his name," she replies through her tears. They are the tears of a leader—quiet, and beautiful. Even her sorrow glitters like diamonds upon her snowy white coat.
"Then why do you weep so?" she queries softly.
Celestia watches your chest—still now, the rhythm of life having passed— and lifts those preternatural violet eyes to your peaceful face. She bows her head in reverence.
"He tended the roses."
In the heart of the labyrinth, at the garden's center, a single ivory rose shines in the moonlight.
~Fin~
