Ophelia had always looked like a sculpture of fresh fallen snow. Her face was lithe, delicate, as was her body, but carved so masterfully. Even when I was young, I was well aware that my aunt and mother were beautiful mares. However, looking toward the two colored eyes of my kin, I begin to realize the expression I once found thoughtful looked morose, sad, lonely. Moreso than ever, Ophelia's thin figure looked weak, like thin ice over a lake. As such, I reinforce my smile, feeling my lips tug upward and my eyes twinkle.

I return the soft touch of familial love, breathing against her skin, almost expecting it to fall away from the pressure of my breath. Had I grown too large now, that I thought my aunt weak? Is she truly delicate? I wonder.

"I am the one who left the Foothills first," I say with cordial tones. "You need not apologize." Then, pausing to look at the wall as she speaks of it, I think back to my childhood here. We had not had a wall, but maybe I am desensitized to its presence, having visited the desert many times prior since its erection. Her words speaking of war make my brows furrow, though. I hoped that no war had befallen Midas and Cera's home, but much of the past few seasons I had spent travelling. What could have happened? Just about anything.

"I'm afraid I don't know," I say, a bit distant, until another question was thrown at me.

Before I could answer, though, the appearance of another rattles through with a yell of Ophelia's name. I smile politely, stepping slightly away from the pale mare to get a better view of the pegasus stallion approaching. By the burly build, I assume that this man is a soldier of some sort. My hope lifts, knowing that as a solider he would likely have some idea of where Midas would be - after all, he is a General to my knowledge at this point. I wait for the adults to finish talking. I have to admit, though, I cannot keep a straight-face as the soldier calls me sir.

I am tall and filling in my muscle more with each day, but I hardly think I am old enough to be referred to so politely by a stallion, much less one who has no idea who my parents are. I manage to keep myself from giggling, but the dance of my lips would be entertaining were they paying attention. This is my nephew Hototo. I nod at my name, as if to prove her claim. We may look very different, yet somehow, there is still a definitive similarity between our structures.

I have never been able to pin that one down.

"I am looking for Midas," I say when there is a pause in conversation. "Is he home?"