Dearest Journal

Meadow Surprise was tired, but not in body- well, maybe a little in her eyes, but that was more due to a faulty prescription than anything else. Getting new glasses was as good an excuse as any for going to the mainland, as everyone knew that it always took months to get anything to the Misty Isle, and Meadow's eyes had a very particular prescription that was easy to mess up- and, of course, the dear mare couldn't possibly sell all her honey on the island, not without setting chins to waggling again.
Meadow Surprise's Estrus was a month and a half late; and, after using a spell she learned in the health class of Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, she knew the reason why.

Trottingham is not Equestria- let the record be marked plainly. Trottingham is most definitely not Equestria. For one thing, it's so small that everyone of even slight prominence knows almost all the business of everyone else; for another, the values of Trottingham are a good four or five hundred years out of date.

It doesn't take much time for a Spellweaver to pack all their things; maybe an afternoon, once they've settled things with the Bank and the Mayor's office. The Bank is the one institution in town that is, for better or worse, completely private; and the Mayor's office closes at noon and doesn't reopen until sunrise the next day. People don't move to Trottingham all that often; most of the population is adult, or transient to take advantage of the military base. A bit of paperwork at the Bank; a letter in the Notary's drop box at the Mayor's... and that's really it.

Legally, anyway- Meadow Surprise is free to leave any time she'd like.

"You don't have to go, Meadow,"

"Yes, I do- Auntie Ravel, if I want any kind of life for the Little Bobbin, I've got to go right away, before anyone really figures it out,"

"-yes. Yes, I suppose you do. I wish... I wish... I'll miss you,"

"I'll miss you too... And please, Auntie, you have to know- I'm so proud of you- proud to have known you, proud that you were mine-"

"...In everything you do, you must always be yourself..."

"In everything I do, I will always be myself,"

"-And I promise to be true,"

The two mares stared at each other, long and silent in the gloomy village of Trottingham. The Royal Army Base, on the shore, was just waking up.

The older one, careworn and unraveling over time, worn out and worn in and wearing away at the seams- she embraces a younger, straighter-legged mare, still trim and fit and shaggy with winter. Their noses touch; their necks cross; their horns gesture around each other's heads in an old Unicorn gesture of goodbye, weaving a little cantrip of farewell around each other. It will break in the dawn's light; but for now, while the moon still holds sway, the magic stays.

The young mare, tall and high-headed and itching to go (longing to stay)- she dabs a few tears from her eyes, and smiles at her Aunt. Her Aunt, helplessly, lovingly, sorrowfully- she smiles back.

"Love you, forever,"

"Love you, forever,"

"Love you, forever, too. Goodbye, Meadow Surprise; I don't think we'll meet again,"

"Goodbye, Ravel Ripstop; I rather think you're right,"

A Heartsong gets sung when the emotions in a pony's heart overwhelm their rational mind; it's what happens when you're too old to have magical surges, but you still have all the emotions that made surges possible. Babies and foals are too small to handle their emotions- after all, emotions come full size, it's the pony that has to grow into them; thus, the Surge, which keeps their powerful emotions from doing permanent harm to their still young and tender bodies.
The more mature and complicated the emotion, the more private and intimate the Heartsong becomes- because, really, how do you properly sing about something as bittersweet as leaving your home, your life, your family and friends and business, all because the laws of your country don't allow you to become something you've always wanted to be?

How much does a life weigh? That depends on what you're defining as someone's life. It could be just enough to fill a modest sized cart, mostly small things but with one or two larger pieces- almost entirely soft goods and tools, aside from the two large beehives on the back and the clinking jars of amber honey. Not too much for a mare Meadow Surprise's size to pull; actually, rather less than one would think she'd need, considering how unicorns generally have at least a small library somewhere. Then again, there is a set of very particular scrap books and binders in a weatherproofed box... perhaps Meadow Surprise is not so different a unicorn after all, though she's certainly the largest you'll ever meet.

It could be balanced against this- a formal dance in the winter, for those who'd finished their five years of service to the Diarchy's Crown, and a stallion with eyes like sapphires in the summer's sunlight and wings broad enough for the both of them. It could be laughter in the dusky light, the gasping sigh of night, dawns warm pleasures and breakfasts dumb puns, pastries and scrambled eggs, and I can't stay, I'm sorry; I can't go, forgive me. It could be leaving, and letting them leave, and forgetting- until spring came, and with it six weeks of increasing worry. It could be a spell, learned at a school far across the sea somepony got into on scholarship and skill; and she was so embarrassed to learn it, but so grateful when it showed her-

It could be the same weight as half a jar of clover-honey.

It could be the weight of a dusty law book from the library, stuck in with a pile of periodicals woefully out of date.

It could be a choice that isn't a choice at all.

It could be going to the Bank, as usual; and clearing out your accounts, which is not; and selling your house, which is not; and packing all your belongings in an afternoon, which is not; and telling your bees, which is usual; but what you tell them is not, and their joy is only matched by your worry.

It could be the same as the weight of a soul- which is the weight of a story.

It could even be the weight of your Aunt's tearstained smile, proud and afraid for you, all at once; two letters in your saddlebags and a cart hitched to your withers, the road to the Guto River Ferry long and silent in the predawn gloom.

-or even, and this is most bizarre, but even... it could even be all of those things at once, and a strange fluttery feeling somewhere that isn't your stomach at all, but farther back and deeper.

The mare named Meadow Surprise takes the ferry from Trottingham to the Griffinstone side of the Guto River, which is the cheapest option. She's got a bit less than a year to get to Equestria proper, find somewhere to live, and amass a bit of money- and then, well, then it'll be quite too late to be doing much of anything at all.