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.
