The Tale of the Hippogriff

by OleGrayMane

Ⅷ - Return to the Prairie

Through summer and into autumn, Meadow drifted amongst unavoidable memories. Each day on the way to the fields, she passed the hedgerow around her garden, Celia’s birthplace. Working in the fields called to mind how exasperated the tasks left her child, and remembering brought a heavy-hearted smile. In an unguarded moment, she would picture a young Celia flying over the swaying grasses, endeavoring to beat the wind, and try as she might to avoid it, at day’s end her eyes were drawn to the place where her daughter departed.

The earth, perceiving her melancholy, attempted to solace with abundance. Truly the growing season had been extraordinary, but to no avail, for the soil’s boon could not console her nor could the sunshine gladden. At least the work tired, for never had there been so arduous a harvest. Meadow slept without dreams.

Now harvest had drawn to a close. The rye and barley had been threshed and winnowed, the beans picked, the turnips dug, all stowed way with care. Meadow’s stores overflowed, sufficient to sustain for two winters or more, yet this bounty meant little, for with Celia gone there had already been a surplus. With so much, not once that summer had Meadow found it necessary to travel to the village, nor had she the desire. Likewise, she did not visit the mill come fall, and none came seeking her obligations.

Although her heart remained leaden, Meadow persevered, immersing herself in labor, for her father taught her the seasons wait for nopony.

Hence, with little to distract and out of wont not need, beneath the midday sun, Meadow gleaned the fields. She roamed the stubble, knowing autumn’s pleasant days would soon disappear, for only last week she had seen a rainbow encircle the moon, winter’s own harbinger. The prairie prepared: Long gone were the wildflowers’ splendor, and on the lowland’s hedges, leaves painted yellow and red struggled to linger another day.

Meadow meandered her fields but was not alone. Nearby a multitude of crows squawked, sniping and bickering over claims to the leavings. As much amused as frustrated, Meadow shook her head over their reluctance to share. So she gave the field to them, hoping they would spread out and find peace, but little help it was, for the quarrel escalated, with some taking to the air and swooping and shrieking at those upon the ground. She turned her back and started up a low hillock.

From atop it she surveyed the year’s work and felt the satisfaction which always came with harvest. Only this year, she longed for somepony with whom to share it. She pushed on.

Not much later she halted, startled not by a noise, but by the unexpected lack of it. The raucous crows where more than silent, they were nowhere to be seen. With head high, Meadow listened for incongruous sounds. She watched for concealed movement. While uncommon, wolves approached settlements when brave enough, and she was conspicuously alone. Finding not a thing untoward on the ground, she scanned the sky. So clear and bright the day, she shielded her eyes and soon spied the cause for the birds’ departure.

Three hawks circled overhead, and this, she surmised, frightened away the quarrelsome flock. The glare made it hard to determine, and the birds were uncommonly high, but the trio appeared to be descending, describing a wide circle. In a while, they were lower, and she made out their broad wings. Not hawks, but eagles. Lacking a compelling reason not to, she went on watching. Lower still, their size grew too great for even the largest of eagles. Sunlight flashed off polished metal.

Anxiety and anticipation left her paralyzed

The three prepared to land, arraying themselves side by side.

Dreadful joy filled Meadow’s heart, and she shivered.

The griffons landed an appreciable distance away. She watched them remove helmets and then engaged in a hasty conversation. One took to the air, and with steady wingbeats, set out towards her. Faster and faster Meadow’s heart raced, yet she dared not hope.

Close enough, Celia landed, and Meadow raced to her. No words accompanied the homecoming, only tears, and when at last those were exhausted, Meadow, still in her daughter’s embrace, peered up.

“Is he here?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

“No, Mother. After Ahren left, he never returned to his city. He disappeared. All these years, and still no one is certain what’s become of him.”

With an anguished gasp, Meadow held her daughter fast, and although she tried, there were no tears to shed.

“Mother, don’t give up hope.”

“What is there to hope for?” she moaned.

“They say—” Celia declared, but stayed until Meadow raised her head. “They say I can find him. There is this… I…” And for a moment more, she struggled. “I don’t know what to call her, but she says I can find him, that I’m the only one who can. There are others too, they believe.”

Meadow rubbed her eyes. “Can you?”

“I promised I’d find him, for you, Mother. They have suspicions, the griffons, what’s become of him, and others too. They’ve made plans, but it’s too late to set out now. Spring would be the soonest. We have to wait longer, Mother, all of us.” She glanced at her companions resting in the distance. “Anyhow, the Captain doesn’t think I’m ready. Neither does Lodema or Prince Warrik.”

Baffled, Meadow froze, open-mouthed. “Warrik… prince?”

“Yes, Father’s brother. Mother, Ahren, he is their king—”

“He never said.”

“—and they want him back, to rule the city. And their city… so much more than I dreamed. Buildings, huge stone buildings, and so many griffons, but—Oh, Mother! There is so much to tell.”

“Then—” She hesitated and glanced at the griffons. “Let us go home and talk.”

“Mother, there’s no time. I can only stay a short while.”

Meadow’s heart sank.

“The mountains are so far away, farther than I could describe. I can fly much faster now, they’ve taught me, but it still takes many, many days, and then—the ponies. I told them how the ponies treat you, what they think of us both. If the villagers saw us, saw griffons visiting you… It was too dangerous, so they decided we must remain hidden. The rest of us are camped far north of the village where we won’t be spotted. Please understand, Mother. My visit must be short, so you stay safe.”

“I see.” But her voice was frail.

“Yes, the ponies.” Celia spoke rapidly. “Have they treated you better since I went away?”

“I’ve not seen anypony. I’d no need to go to the village.”

Celia looked over the bare fields. “What about at the mill, when you brought the harvest?”

“I didn’t go.” Meadow looked aside. “Nopony came.” With a forlorn smile, she added, “They likely think me dead.”

And so, for a time, neither spoke.

The bewilderment upon Celia’s face saddened Meadow, and while she desired, she knew no words which might explain. Then, with a single blink, Celia’s eyes brightened. She began undoing the pouch by her side.

“I must return this.” Unwrapping a carefully folded cloth, Celia produced the pendant.

“No other than you may wear this, for it was more than a gift. Many have worn it in Father’s family. It is special to them, precious, for it is a pledge, a commitment of lifelong love.” As her father had once done, Celia secured the stone around her mother’s neck, and while doing so, she made a solemn promise.

“As I have returned this to you, so shall I return him.”

So strong, so determined, hearing her voice lifted Meadow’s spirit. Yet this was short-lived, for the inevitability of Celia’s departure, the awaiting solitude, brought dread.

“Return yourself.” Meadow’s eyes pled as much as her voice. “That will be enough.”

“I will, Mother,” assured Celia. “I will.”

An impatient whistle startled them both. It came from one of the griffons, who then motioned for Celia to return.

“Wait.” She flew off, calling out, “I’ll be back.”

The ensuing discussion amongst the three was not long, but disturbing to Meadow. Celia strode back and forth, angry, frustrated, and there were harsh sounding voices. Seeing such agitation made her fret over Celia’s safekeeping with these unknown griffons.

Soon the affair was settled, and Celia returned to Meadow, clutching a small box against her chest.

“Before I go, I must give you this. It’s a gift from those of Father’s city. I explained how you helped him, how much you love him, what his absence means. They… They understand, in a way, and they want to help.” She presented the box to her mother

It was small, sufficient to contain a single apple but no more. A cord bound it, securing the lid, and fashioned in a manner so it seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Meadow gazed at the box and cradled it with reverence. Never had she beheld such elegance.

“Inside,” Celia began, “is something magic.”

Meadow looked up, and the earnest expression her daughter bore set her trembling. Magic? Such things belonged in stories, not the lives of ponies like herself. She held the box and thought of the mystery within, the mere possession of it giving rise to both wonder and trepidation.

“If you feel forsaken,” said Celia, “what is inside can help. With its magic, you can never be alone.”

Hesitating, Meadow reached to undo the intricate knot.

“Mother, don’t.”

Alarmed, she asked, “Is the magic evil?”

“No, but their magic is… it carries risks.” Celia, in turmoil, shook her head. “I don't trust it. Lodema, the one who gave me this, she used magic trying to find Father. She paid a great price, too great, and I don’t want the same to happen to you, Mother, no matter what. Please understand, I didn’t want you to have it. They insisted.”

“What…” Meadow’s throat tightened and, for an instant, was rendered her mute. “What should I do?”

“Put it someplace safe,” Celia replied. “But promise me, unless you know no other way, promise me you won’t open it.”

Meadow, with thoughts disordered, remained silent.

“Promise me,” Celia implored.

Meadow did.

Then, with an abrupt glance at the griffons, Celia said, “I must leave.” She clasped her mother. “I promise I’ll return with Father. Do not lose hope, Mother.” Pulling tighter, she repeated, “Do not lose hope.”

Celia left no time for a response and sped off, rejoining the others.

Meadow looked on. The distance to where her daughter landed struck her as being greater than before.

Celia prepared to leave, donning a helmet and affixing armor, and too soon, Celia and the griffons set out, ascending ever so high, as they raced north at a speed no hawk or eagle could rival.

Once again, Meadow stood alone in her fields.

—❦—

In the days following, Meadow endeavored to hearten herself. Every morn she rose adamant to remain hopeful. In the daytime, she busied herself and strove to think of naught but the present, yet at intervals, she might catch herself searching the sky, although she knew it futile. Chastising herself, she vowed to return to work and be in good cheer. Nighttime offered little respite, for it was in the hours of darkness where she truly struggled, remaining sleepless for hours, beset by memories.

So it was that the resplendent days of autumn faded away, until winter came and exerted its bleak dominion over the prairie as it always did. One after another, silvery moons traversed the clear night sky, marking time, and throughout, Meadow remained alone.

—❦—

Shutting the door against the wind required a shove with his shoulder, but Murron managed to secure it and began removing his cloak. Once hung, the accumulated snow in its folds slipped to the floor.

While he did this, not a word was uttered by those already inside. With keen but silent anticipation they watched. Of his officers, most sat around a circular table near the room’s center. Some had been watching a pair playing an ancient game of strategy, polished stones of black and white upon a board. A cursory check for coins nearby turned up nothing. Good, Murron thought, for even if gold was at stake, they had the good sense to conceal it.

Others clustered in groups, likely conversing before he arrived. Rana, he noticed, was among those. Then, over by the near-useless fireplace, two were diligently working: Murron smelled what they were up to.

Cousins Darrow and Galvyn warmed a batch of their special drink in a copper pot at the fireside, a favorited beverage in their house, Tolan. So enthusiastic they were about it, the pair had prevailed upon a few outsiders to try it, if solely in the spirit of the holiday, but Murron couldn’t understand why anyone would drink it, regardless of the time of the year.

Of the pair, Galvyn was the younger by half a year, yet he measured a head taller than his cousin. This, Murron supposed, augmented the lad’s already remarkable confidence. Thus, he was not startled when it was Galvyn who first spoke.

“How goes it, Captain?”

“Oh, the northern bear’s awoken all right,” he droned. “T’isnt in a good mood either.” He elicited sparse chuckles.

Galvyn ladled more of the steaming brew into Darrow’s cup. “Not about to break, then?”

“Break? Can’t make out the valley floor from the walls anymore. This’ going to last awhile.” With that said, their faces bore expectant looks, but he chose to leave them upon tenterhooks, for he relished prolonging the delivery of good news.

“So…” he drawled and paused again. “We’re finished. Inform your charges they’re released for the remainder of the year. As of now, holiday begins.” An appreciative chorus followed, and only when it began to wane on its own did he quash it.

“Notwithstanding,” he bellowed, and the room returned to silence. “You flock of feather-heads will return so we may spend an enlightening afternoon together. Again we shall pursue the mastery of tactics upon the ground, and we will continue to do so until I am beyond satisfied.” The inevitable and expected grumbling began.

“However, t’is the holiday for gifts is it not? So I’ve one for you. Today we’ll use the small glass, and when its sand is gone, you too may depart. Now, off with you all!”

Laughing, they wasted little time before disappearing. Whilst making evening arrangements, the officers slung on their cloaks, and jovial groups of two and three hastened out the door. As they did so, they wished their captain luck in the new year, to which he grunted a reply. In no time the room was nigh empty, and it was then that Murron made a furtive gesture to Rana.

Engaged in a conversation, she excused herself and feigned busyness, hanging back until the last group left. Only she and Murron remained.

“You needed me, Captain?”

“Two requests. First, tonight. Keep an eye on Darrow. Things have been going well for him of late, so I’d hate to see him make any mistakes.”

This produced a puzzled look. “Darrow’s sensible, not a troublemaker.”

“Aye, but don’t discount that cousin of his. Nary a rule applies to Master Galvyn, or so he supposes, and that’s dangerous thinking when you’re got a smidgen of talent. Seen his type, blithe as a lark as he leads the rest astray. Worse when drink’s involved. Do us a service and keep good watch o’er both.”

“Sure,” Rana said. “I’ll tag along. Might have anyhow.”

“My thanks. I’ve a social visit with the constable planned, and if she’s forced to venture out in this mess to deal with foolery, well, it won’t be sociable for me.”

Rana chuckled. “I’ll do my best to assure a pleasant visit, sir.”

Murron grunted and he grabbed his cloak.

“That’s for later. I’ve something more important for now.” He swung the cloak over his back and secured it at the collar. “No holiday for Mistress Celia.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed. “No place for her to go anyway, eh? Warrik’s busy with the usual year-end rot, making certain the nobles are properly stuffed, and I can’t envision her in a seedy tavern with our lot—” With his solitary eye, he settled a stony glare on Rana. “Even if they’d have her.”

The feathers of her crest flared, but briefly. “Sir, progress’s been made. Much improved from when we started.”

“True enough, but time’s too precious to have her waste it filling a barkeep’s till. We’ll leave that chore to the others, eh? Escort her to Lady Lodema, and inform her Celia’s released to her custody until I say otherwise.” He flipped up his hood and thought to leave, but the door remained shut, for although maintaining a firm grip on the door handle, Murron stood still.

“Sir?”

“Take another with you.” He faced Rana. “Someone you can rely upon.”

The response was immediate. “Willa all right?”

Willa was from Ruarc, he recalled, the largest of the lower houses. Murron had always held them in high regard, for they were wealthy and secure in their standing, a rare combination. Neither gold nor favor induced treachery with them.

And Willa herself? Hard to forget her. A veritable sylph and, on arrival, awkward. Given a spear, she proved a menace to herself and others, woeful so, and he had contemplated a discharge for a time. But Murron had not, for the sense he always trusted told him otherwise. Not the spear, but buckler and short sword. Within a moon Willa matched him and in three few claimed to best her.

A shrewd choice and swiftly made, but Rana’s judgment was always sound. Three years ago she had arrived that miserable, rainy spring, but unlike Willa, no special sense was required to spot her aptitude, for the quickness of her mind was obvious to all. So he prepared her path, a difficult one by design, and at every opportunity he taxed her resolve, demanding more of her than any other. This he did with a singular intent, for he required a successor. Murron rested secure in his choice, for she never disappointed.

“She’ll do,” he said. “I want all three of you go armed and armored. Make haste, but be sly about it. T’would be a shame should an ambitious soul put an end to our plans.” With a tug on his hood, Murron steeled himself for the blizzard outside.

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Luck to you in the coming year,” Rana said.

“And to you as well.”

Murron opened the door, and frantic whorls of snow set upon them as they stepped out, yet he felt curiously warm and paid the weather no mind at all.

—❦—

A lone, high window illuminated the Lady’s bower, and although the great storm had passed three days prior, crescents of snow still occluded the window’s panes, which left the room darker than usual, and while Lodema required no light, Celia did. Upon lighting yet another candle, she proclaimed her task done.

“Good, let us begin,” Lodema said and tapped the side of the silver bowl sitting on the table before her.

From a stand near the door, Celia fetched the water pitcher and filled the bowl half way. After replacing the pitcher, she started searching the poorly illuminated shelving lining the wall. Her eyes darted about, and unease took hold of her.

“Umm…”

“What is it now, child?”

“I can’t find the oil.”

“Well, where did you put it? When you were last here, was it not returned to the shelf whence it came?”

Celia continued checking. There were many shelves heaped high with manuscripts, so she needn’t look upon them. A clutter of squat crockery, glass vials, and a scarce few wooden boxes occupied the remainder, tattered pieces of yellowed paper labeled most, but they provided no aid to one who could not read. Celia, however, had no need for labels for she knew well what she sought. Of medium size, bottle’s glass was tinged green, and an ample portion of its cork was missing, yet regardless of this uniqueness, it eluded her.

“You must learn to return things to their proper place,” Lodema chastised.

“You sound like my mother.”

“Your mother is absolutely correct.”

Celia peered at her through narrow eyes, for it irked to have Lodema speak of Mother, even if it might be praise. A silent moment went by.

“Keep searching,” Lodema sighed and bent her head to the side. “Try the center shelf, left of the door. I recall you fumbling about there before you last left.”

Grumbling to herself, Celia rooted around and turned up nothing. So much for the Lady’s extraordinary hearing, she mused, and with her hunt still frustrated, she stepped backward and surveyed the entirety of the shelves. Remarkably, in a spot searched an instant ago, the bottle manifested itself.

“I found it,” she announced and brought the oil over. After removing its cork, she added three drops to the silver bowl. A rainbow sheen formed on the water’s surface.

“Lucky I found the magic oil.”

“How many times must I explain,” sniped Lodema. “It’s no more magic than the water or the bowl.”

“Then why use them?”

“They serve as a lens.” She stretched over and jabbed rather roughly at Celia’s chest. “There is the magic. The rest, they are but trappings employed to bring focus.” Lodema’s head waggled. “Silly, forgetful girl.”

It seemed nothing ever when well with Lodema. Celia sat absolutely still and wished the aged griffon could see the spiteful glare she cast. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, the Lady might feel it. Although she pursued this practice of concentrated ill will for some time, it had no apparent effect. Without warning, Lodema drew an abrupt breath and let it go in a muted huff.

“Perhaps,” she began, “when our study is over, I will summon a scrivener.” She paused for acknowledgment but received silence. “We can return to our search of another of the bestiaries—if you so desire.”

Could she make no better apology? thought Celia. What an aggravation she was, and worse, when complaints were brought to Warrik, they only elicited laughter. All these griffons remained unfathomable. Celia heaved a sigh, for apology or not, she reckoned the Lady would offer no further amends.

“No. No, thank you. I’m certain I’m not in there, anyway.”

“Oh?” she declared with sincere astonishment. “This is quite interesting. If you have given up on our search, then as Warrik decided, the choice is to be yours. So, have you arrived at a decision?”

“Yes, I’ve decided,” replied Celia, but a tremor was in her voice, for she had not intended to tell anyone right away, lest she changed her mind. “At least, I believe I have.”

“Well then, what name do you give yourself?”

“Hippogriff.” But she’d said it too tentatively, so, with confidence, she stated, “I am a hippogriff.”

“Hmm.” Lodema nodded for a time, reflecting. “I cannot say I am in agreement with the order, yet… It is befitting.”

Again Celia found herself sighing, for Lodema’s habitual fault finding proved exhausting.

“Nevertheless, someone must be called, for the bestiary now requires an addition.” Lodema’s voice took on an imposing quality. “Enough delays.” And with a dismissive wave, she added, “Begin.”

With a solid hold on the table’s edge, Celia leaned forward and gazed into the bowl, seeking to maintain a clear mind as she did so. This time, as in the past, it proved difficult task. While gazing, her breaths made ripples on the water, transforming the reflection of the candle flames into dancing stars. A night sky in miniature, Celia thought, very much like the moon and stars on the river back home, and soon her mind strayed, off chasing recollections and assorted reveries. These wandering thoughts and the monotonous practice brought on drowsiness.

Rapid blinks broke the unfocused stare. She sagged forward, darkness creeping closer. Next a slow, lazy blink, and directly after, a quick lifting of her head, but she was not restored. Again with eyes dulled, her heavy head slumped lower and lower, and a moment before it struck the table’s surface, she jerked back.

“It’s hopeless,” she cried and thrust back from the table. “I can’t do this!”

“Celia! You must keep going.”

“Why should I?” she groaned. “Why? So I can fall asleep like last time? Spill everything and make a mess? You’ll just shout at me again!”

“Compose yourself, child. You must keep on trying. This is too important.”

“If it’s so important, then why don’t you do it?”

Lodema’s breaths came swift and strong, but she failed to check herself.

“Do you suppose I have not tried?” she bellowed. “I’ve sat here in my darkness, year after year, seeking, reaching out for the child I raised, the child I loved. Yet I see nothing. Nothing! I tried again and again until all that remained to me was waiting—waiting for you!”

Watching the old griffon proved unbearable, and Celia bowed her head.

“Could I have done this myself, Ahren would have been in the great hall to welcome you, not his brother, but I cannot! None other than you are the key. You must be—You… you must bring about what I cannot.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”

“I command you—no, no…” She stretched forward, sweeping the air. Celia edged near and let Lodema’s touch find her.

“Celia—I have confidence. I am certain you can find him. Try once more, continue even if your fail, otherwise your father will remain trapped in his darkness. Please. Try for him, for your mother. Do not give up hope.”

The water in the bowl lay motionless, casting the candle flames back like accusatory eyes. Drained of spirit, Celia tried to think. This responsibility was too much. It made her eyes ache to the point of weeping. If only it was over and she could return home, but she made a promise to her mother, one she vowed to keep. How weary Mother looked when she last saw her, worn, much worse than in spring. And seeing her so dejected, Celia had urged her not to lose hope. After recalling her own words, Celia thus concluded she must do no less than what she asked of her mother.

“I’ll try.”

At that, Lodema released her. “Be patient now. Trust yourself. I know you can do it.”

Celia took several deep breaths before settling, and calmer now, more determined, she lower her head and concentrated on the water’s surface. Minute movements of the table formed ripples on the water, and they rebounded off the bowl’s sides, meeting, crossing, combining or canceling. The oil glistened, and Celia sensed drowsiness stalking her, yet she resisted, maintaining a constant stare even as the light dimmed. But in a moment, the walls passed from her sight, and then the table and the candles, until darkness swallowed all. Still, her eyes remained open, focused on the tremulous water.

Despite all of her resolve and resistance, Celia was asleep: Of this she was positive, for a blackness devoid of depth encompassed her. The vague sense of falling, or maybe flying, attended the dark, so it must be a dream, yet this awareness did not enable her to awake. In the empty dreamscape, she allowed herself to drift without aim for a time. Whether flying or falling, Celia judged she was now afar, but how she concluded this, she could not say, for such is the curious nature of dreams.

Flying she concluded, for ahead appeared points of light, stars in a midnight black sky, afire in a myriad of colors. Some were weak and dull, only glowing embers almost extinguished by the night. But a selected few blazed in arrogant reds and contemptuous blues dominating the other with their intensity. Her dream sky pleased Celia, for the vibrant colors surpassed what the eye might behold.

As she traveled amongst the multitude of stars, one called for her attention, summoning with its radiance. Clearer and richer than others, it gleamed steadfast yellow. Ever closer she drew until it encompassed the whole sky. The sun she reasoned. This dream sun bathed her in a dazzling brilliance. Celia basked in its bounteous light until startled when it spoke.

The sun’s speech came with a dearth of sound, and supposing that the silence fashioned some sort of words, to her they remained incomprehensible. Yet it seemed to speak. Strange, she remarked, even for a dream. But this oddity did not concern her long, and upon closer listening, Celia realized no words existed at all, for these were not sounds, but pictures, the impressions of places and things, and they themselves were light, smaller stars within a greater constellation. Soon, all these lights surrounded her, each distinct, hurtling by too fast or too far to decipher. Then, one flew nearby, and she gave chase.

Through twists and turns, she pursued, but matched in speed, Celia found herself incapable of closing on the racing light, but it not matter, for she felt carefree. On the joyful race went, when, without explanation, the speeding solitary light halted. She collided and plunged into its heart, and from the inside, she observed and perceived its essence.

The light coalesce. It formed a face. Her mother’s.

Celia emerged with a frightful cry, lurching forward, sprawling herself across the table. The upended bowl landed on the floor with a bright, metallic clang, its contents splattered over herself and Lodema.

Panic-stricken, Celia lay panting, for what she’d witnessed remained with her, and like the lights, her thoughts careened about, wreaking havoc with what she supposed real. Over her pounding heart, she became aware of a pleading voice and realized Lodema clutched her shoulders.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked again and again.

She had no answer to this question, nor was she able to answer, for her troubled thoughts did not permit it. Even the worst of Celia’s dreams never proved so unsettling. What had she seen? The image had appeared so sudden and clear, so real. She had not doubt that it was Mother’s face, sharp and detailed, hanging perfectly etched in the light. No, it was the light, and in it, and both, but... How was any of this possible? She shuddered.

Yet, the face wasn’t her mother’s, for something subtle, something disquieting, was amiss. But what it might be, Celia did not know. She thought on the image of light, and as time distanced her from the dream, her reason returned, and with a clear mind, she straightaway came upon the difference in Mother's face. Never did Celia remember her looking so young.

Near frantic, Lodema shook her. “You must tell me! You saw, didn’t you?”

At first, finding it hard to talk, she only nodded, but when her heart no longer raced, she spoke.

“I saw.”

Lady Lodema threw back her head, and within the confines of the room, her laughter was deafening.

—❦—

Meadow spent the leaden days of winter in her hut, resting by the fire. On occasion, her eyes fell upon the gift of the griffons, the elegantly sealed box, and her mind was drawn to the time she last beheld Celia. Clutching the pendant, she recalled her daughter’s promise, her admonition, and the promise she had made in return.

At such times Meadow dwelt upon what had been and of what was to come. Alone in winter’s grim silence, these thoughts weighed heavy, for she recalled a time when remembrance once brought hope. But now the memories of those she loved seemed an affliction, one from which she found no escape.

For love is both grace and grief. It compels us to tasks trivial and grand, yet wounds without need of blade. And when love is lost, its injury is the greatest. Then, when all seems beyond our grasp and the future but a void, all that is left to sustain is hope.

Hope Meadow no longer had.

Day after dark day, memories and melancholy plagued her, until at last the hope protecting her heart wore unbearably thin. Perhaps it was the bitterness of the cold or the wail of the wind, but on a day little different from any other, Meadow despaired. She opened the box.

Therein, nestled in red silk, lay a glass orb. She picked it up. It was of unrivaled lightness. Filling the lustrous vessel was an amorphous vapor, threads of gray mist trapped in perpetual swirls. As she held it, faint images became evident in the lucent smoke. At first, Meadow strained to see, but in time recognizable scenes arose, growing truer the longer she watched. She became transfixed.

Through the orb’s cryptic powers she once more saw her father, young again, as was she. Beneath summer’s brilliant skies, they worked their fields, savoring the warmth and singing songs, ones she’d almost forgotten. Then nightfall came, and together they rested in the tranquility of their home and shared a meal. Afterward, Father extinguished the candle, and she settled against him by the fireside, and there Meadow listened to his oft-told tales, delighting in Father’s voice until sleep carried her youthful self away.

The magic of the orb enabled Meadow to relive every detail of the day Ahren came to her. Again she felt the sting of the wind through her cloak as she went to fetch water. On the stream’s far bank she saw him standing with wings flared and sorrowful eyes. She heard the rustle of the tall grasses as they journeyed to the sanctuary of her home. The smell, the taste of the meal she prepared was exactly as she remembered, and every word of their conversation was rendered true as if he were with her that very moment. Vivid too were the complaints of the wind that night, as was the warmth of the dying embers and of Ahren’s embrace.

At last its glow brought forth scenes of Celia, her child of love, conceived without fear or prejudice.

And for a fleeting moment, Meadow was content.

Comments

[Thought Prism]

For love is both grace and grief. It compels us to tasks trivial and grand, yet wounds without need of blade. And when love is lost, its injury is the greatest. Then, when all seems beyond our grasp and the future but a void, all that is left to sustain is hope.

[Peachy Keen]

What a beautiful tale you've weaved so far! All the characters are lovey, and the story very engaging, never a boring chapter, but never any needless drama for excitement's sake either. A true joy to read indeed! I look forward to reading more of this awesome adventure!

Thank you so much for sharing your story with us!