Twilight lit the valley in orange, the first even-stars peeking out from a sky flushed pink and red and purple. Hazy was the early summer evening, the lingering warmth of a dying day settling over the valley like a balmy blanket; an oasis of summer in a tundra both cruel and cold. Of course, the young child romping in the last light of declining sunshine had never known the hyperborean tundra just outside of her home: in fact, she did not know much else than the love of her parents and the tales they told, and the little blossoms which sprung beneath every delicate step she took. Curiosity burgeoned within her chest like a night-blooming flower, and she shook off the laziness of summer days, mischief lighting in her eyes as she twirled and pivoted and danced through green meadows, orange light tracing her delicate features as she whirled through a blur of grass and flowers. Purple asters, pale daisies, blue forget-me-nots, and white lilies all sprung with every twist of minute feet, leaving a graceful swirling trail of color in her wake. Bees and butterflies and little sparrows tagged along too; everything the nymph did was a procession of purling live and color, a vibrant parade of creation in all its glory—birdsong and the merry humming of bees. When she hummed along with the birds, in a flutter of wings they would each pick a bloom of their choice. They hurried and waltzed over and under each other, 'till their flowers were woven together in a vivid garland, blue and purple and pink and white. They crowned her with that wreath which glowed gently in the dying light, laying it gently over her tall ears. A broad smile lit up her face, crinkling lilac eyes—she was their queen of flowers, the garlanded maiden, bequeathed by little sparrows and heralded by the hum of restless bees like the anthousai she was and always would be.

Soon did the sun sunk below the horizon, last light silhouetting the stoic stone mountains which loomed ever so tall above her, like the statues of ancient giants, warriors frozen by the rising sun. She glanced upward at them, studying the faint trails and crags and the pinpricks of distant caves. They seemed so insurmountable, separating the sheltered girl from the outside world she knew of only in stories. One day, she promised herself, tossing her heels at a young sparrow that drew too close to her rump, laughing as it chirped indignantly as she barely clipped its wing. Hunger stirred at her stomach, interrupting dreams of greatness; before she could overcome any mountain, she'd have to fill her stomach. With snort, the roan plunged forward, hooves barely stroking the earth as she went in search of her scholar mother.

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