Life on the Calon farmstead passed swiftly, the days following closely on each other’s heels, seeming at times almost to overtake one another in their precipitation. The seasons fluidly wove in and out, alternately giving and ceding place to one another like choreographed dancers. Spring threw her bouquet of flowers onto the stage of the world; and, as if awaiting the praise of her votaries, lingered expectantly, as was her wont in the warm Gaulyrian clime; then Summer succeeded her with no less eagerness, and showed even fewer qualms in overstaying her welcome; Autumn came in turn, before demurely ceding her place and making room for Winter—a Winter a touch more bashful, a trifle colder in temperament (if not in temperature) that was less inclined to abide here south of the Tirralese Mountains, than the Elysian counterpart Zephyrin had come to know so well from the vantage point of his old room’s windowsill in the Crystalline Palace.

But no more did he survey their moods from afar: while the seasons waxed and waned, Zephyrin steadily grew, and before he knew it he was already at an age when he could take his first halting steps around the farmstead. In truth, when he did so it had not quite yet been time for him to venture out of doors—nor had he always respected exactly the chronology of a child's developmental stages. His being weaned, learning to walk, to speak—each of these occasions had come uncommonly early in his childhood. Yet he practically couldn't help it, being almost completely ignorant of everything pertaining to infants due to his first life, and (no doubt the greater reason) his impatience to become autonomous.

It was only rather belatedly that he noticed his rapid advancement from one milestone to another—his walking unaided, most notably—had instilled a certain wistfulness in his mother, which he took care in future to mitigate by remaining by her side often as she went about her daily tasks. Though there were occasional failures, such as his father repeatedly throwing him up in the air while he remained indifferent throughout the game, Zephyrin passably succeeded in fulfilling his role as a child, and flattered himself to think the Goddess was pleased by his efforts.

The Goddess. Much was there about her that mystified Zephyrin, particularly now that he had been given a second chance at life. For one thing, none of the Kosmæan instruction he had received so much as hinted at the possibility of such a thing. His new existence gave rise to all manner of questions: was he the first to whom the proposition had been made? The first to accept and be reborn? These and other modes of speculation had occupied him for a time, before he marveled at his sheer stupidity. Even if he weren’t the first to live his life anew, how was he to know? Supposing others had preceded him in receiving this favor above all favors, that would signify ‘their’ world had ceased to exist, just like his own.

Maybe, Zephyrin reflected, the original world he had known was simply the product of a multiplicity of second chances—the Goddess periodically turning back the clock of history, as it were, as she offered certain mortals the opportunity to steer it in another direction. Or maybe his case was unique after all. He had no way of knowing.

Concluding that this was a matter beyond his ability to solve, Zephyrin decided to focus his attention on the very real world in which he lived and moved. He was alive, and that was what mattered. Perhaps the future would offer further answers; in the meantime, he would trust that this world would not be snuffed out of existence from one moment to the next, and make use of this opportunity to correct history to the fullest. Spending long hours in the village church, he prayed to know the will of the Goddess—though in view of the years spent in a sickbed during his first life, and the long months spent immured in his mother’s womb and in an old crib, he thought he could be forgiven his preference for the active life.

Seated on the grassy slant of a wooded mountain, his arms stretched behind him, Zephyrin looked down on the sloping contours of the summer-golden valley below, the village of Estrelti nestled in her bosom. Hours he spent outside daily, never tiring of the fresh, clean air, the expansive views, the Gaulyrian flora and fauna. Everything took on a cheerier aspect here, and his thoughts were of a different bent. Whereas his sympathies had formerly lain with the birds imprisoned in the palace’s aviary, finding in them kindred spirits, Zephyrin could now look upon the hawks wheeling freely against the azure without a hollow in his heart, and hear the melodies of song-birds without a dirge rising in his breast. He was changing. Even his daily tasks at the farm held for him an inducible charm.

On the wind rode up the sound of St. Ùwuinaëlle’s twin bells. As he contemplated the idyllic scene below, Zephyrin’s eyes strayed to the church’s steeple. Seeing it he was reminded of the spate of violence that had shaken the village eight years ago. Zephyrin wondered what had befallen the village and its inhabitants during the original unfolding of history. Had the priest and his parents been burned alive in the church, as had almost happened in this world?…

He shook his head. That world was gone now. And no better proof of that could he find… than this.

Zephyrin held forth his palm, and as he did so a perfect blue orb formed in the air above it, revolving with a faint hum. It pulsated with crackling, barely contained power. His energy fully recovered after what seemed a preposterously short rest, he raised his other hand, twisting it experimentally over the orb. The blue mana orb assumed a long, eel-like form, stretching and following his movements. He flicked his wrist, and it projected itself forward, weaving and coiling in serpentine fashion around one of the hill’s tall ash-trees, so common in Gaulyria. Manipulating it further, his mana skimmed over the tree’s diamond-like bark, filling in the gaps between the furrows to illuminate the trunk like an ethereal holiday tree.

Zephyrin let his hands fall, and the showy effect dissipated. He looked down at his hands. As the years had passed, and his new body had grown, his suspicion had matured with it into conviction. In his first life he had been poisoned. The disparity in his mana control, in his strength and endurance, was simply too great. However hopeless his political position had been, and few and impotent his supporters, the Elysian Chancellor had taken no chances. It had been necessary to clip the Gryphon’s wings; to prevent him from growing up healthy, lest his existence feed hopes for a Second Gaulyrian Empire. The shadow of the Griffin loomed too large over his former prey, and having been bested by him times without number, they couldn't resist the satisfaction—however paltry—of avenging themselves on his son.

Frankly, Zephyrin thought, it was a wonder he had managed to attain adulthood in the first place. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just kill him off when he had arrived in Elysia at the tender age of two, and been done with the matter right then and there? If his surviving to adulthood had any part to play in the Goddess’s proposition, however, then he was infinitely grateful to his gaolers…

Zephyrin stood up, dusting off his breeches. That was enough training for one day; his father and mother would be waiting for him. He began retracing his steps; but then, not long after, noticed what seemed to be an alternate route down the mountain. Though it seemed to lead in the opposite direction to Estrelti, he felt compelled by a curious, nagging feeling to pursue this path, which he had not yet explored. He did so to no apparent purpose for well over a quarter of an hour, enjoying the walk all the same. The trees were thicker here, and one could almost think himself in a forest if not for the terrain’s gradient. Zephyrin reflected that though he had explored the countryside around his natal village pretty well, it still reserved plenty of surprises.

As if to prove the veracity of that thought, as he came out of the trees and emerged into a level clearing Zephyrin came face to face with…

… a small sheep. It was chewing the dry grass with great gusto. Zephyrin noted that it belonged to the Bellel breed. Their wool was rather coarse and unsuitable for the cotton industry, but they were prolific and quick to fatten. For that reason they were favored by petty farmers, who raised them for their meat. Zephyrin regarded the masticating sheep a moment longer, then looked round for a shepherd, who would inevitably be in the environs. Sure enough, he soon spotted a small figure seated on a boulder, probably a child around his age, swinging his legs back and forth.

Make that her.

As Zephyrin approached and the shepherdess caught sight of her visitor, she hopped down spryly from her rocky perch. Her face was heavily freckled, and her light brown hair fell around her face as a thick, uncombed mass. Zephyrin noticed she was barefoot.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hullo,” the girl replied. She stared at him unblinkingly. He stared back.

Zephyrin allowed this mute, droll sort of exchange to continue on for some time, then broke the silence once more.

“What are you doing here?”

“Keepin’ my pa’s sheep,” she answered simply, in a thick patois.

Right. That was rather obvious.

“Are there wolves on this mountain?”

“Some.”

“You’re not scared?”

“Naw. They don’t bother me.” The girl grinned. “Are ya scared o’ wolves?”

“No,” said Zephyrin, thinking that even if he were to cross a pack of the beasts, he’d eviscerate them without so much as taking a scratch.

The girl nodded. “That’s good. I ‘ave a medal to Fengar,” she said with a touch of pride, lifting up a cheap, beat-up piece of metal from within her rough-spun shirt and showing it to Zephyrin, “an’ I know ‘Ee won’t let me come tae harm.”

“That’s good,” Zephyrin said. Another silence fell. The girl tilted her head, looking over Zephyrin curiously.

“Who’s yer pa?” she abruptly asked.

“Judoc Calon. Our farm’s just outside Estrelti.”

“Oh! That’s the next village ov’r from where I live. My folks live by Alys.”

“Really? How come I haven’t seen you until now, then?”

“Mama doesn’t let me go tae church exceptin’ on big feasts, like the Lunëadde.”

“You don’t go to catechism?”

“Naw.”

“How many prayers have you learned?”

“Two. The Mydammaloud (Mi’dohmnalaud, Zephyrin corrected her mentally) an’ the salyoutaeshon tae Fengar. But I don’t say the first one.”

“You don’t? It’s too long for you?”

She shook her head wistfully. “Naw. I try tae say it, sometimes, but I nev’r finish it. Ev’ry time I start tae say it, I get tae thinkin’ o’ how our Ma’s lookin’ down on us, like how I’m watchin’ o’er these lil’ uns”—she gestured to the grazing sheep—“an’ how pow’rfly big a flock we are, and how good and smart She must be tae not lose track of any of us, ev’n when we’re bad, an’ ofttimes wander off. An’ how when I’m watchin’ ‘em I get tired, sometimes, an’ start wantin’ a wink of sleep, but She don’t; She keeps watchin’, alwey, ‘cause o’ how big Her heart is, an’ how much She loves us. An’ then I start blubberin’, and nev’r get past the first line o’ the pray’r.”

Listening to the girl speak, Zephyrin felt a curious sensation come over him. He was moved by her simple words, her poor, humble appearance—he was even a little ashamed of himself, inexplicably enough. All these sentiments melded in a swirling, confusing mix. Not knowing how to respond to the candid words of the young shepherdess, he simply asked instead, “What’s your name?”

“Roz’lena. Ya can call me Rose.”

“I’m Zephyrin.”

The girl bobbed her head. “It’s a pleasure tae meet ya, Sephrin.”

“Zephyrin,” Zephyrin said.

“Sephrin,” the girl repeated. “Like the statue in church.”

Trying to unravel the meaning of the girl’s words, Zephyrin recalled the interior of the village church. “You mean… the seraph?” he asked at last, as the prominent statue above the altar came to mind. It featured an angelic being with wings kneeling before Selena, his hand over his breast. It was admittedly a very beautiful statue, and though Zephyrin was no stranger to exquisite craftsmanship, having lived in the sumptuously decorated Crystalline Palace and frequented its royal chapel, his first sight of it had impressed him.

The girl nodded at his suggestion. “Ya look like an angel,” she said simply.

Zephyrin stood uncertainly for a moment, unsure as to how best respond to this childlike praise. “You’re too kind,” he started to say, but the girl interrupted him.

“Naw, Sephrin, ya can’t talk like that!” the girl said urgently, surprising him. “That ain’t what an angel would say!”

“Oh? What would he say?” Zephyrin asked, amused by her certainty as to the dispositions of angels.

“‘Ee wouldn’t say naught. ‘Ee’d bow his head, all graceful like, an’ close ‘is eyes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“‘Cause ‘ee’d remember the Goddess, an’ that ‘is beauty’s ‘Eers, an’ ‘ee’d be all recoll… recollek…” she struggled.

“Recollected?”

“Aye, that. That’s what ya ‘ave tae do,” she informed him seriously.

Holding back a grin, Zephyrin inclined his head profoundly. “Very well, Rose. From now on I’ll endeavor to accept compliments with seraphic grace. Even though,” he added, “I think you’re more of an angel than me.”

Rose laughed heartily at this. “Yer a bad fibber, Sephrin, or ye’ve a mole’s eyes! Pshaw! Whoev’r heard o’ an angel more spotted than a lake trout, or wi’ ’air like a bale o’ hay?”

The befreckled, sunburnt girl’s description of herself both touched and amused Zephyrin. “You’re not concerned about whether or not you’re pretty?”

She shrugged dismissively. “Naw. It’s just me an’ my sheep here. It don’t matter a lick tae ‘em if I’m princess or scarecrow.”

Zephyrin couldn’t help a chuckle escaping him. “Your sheep are one thing, but what about your husband when you grow up?”

“Oh! Well, I guess I’d wear a mighty fine dress for the weddin’, like ladies do. But if I marry it’ll be tae a plain sort o’ man, I s’pose, an’ he won’t mind my freckles. I don’t need tae be handsome. I’m not like ya, Sephrin. I’ll prolly live in this village all me life.

Zephyrin was intrigued. “And I won’t?”

The girl shook her head vigorously. “Naw! I kin tell just from seein’ ya! Yer gonna go out in the wide world, an’ meet lots o’ folk. Grand ones too, I reckon. An’ you’ll be an angel for them.”

Zephyrin marveled over her words, finding in them an uncanny prescience. Well, he didn’t know about the ‘angel’ part, though. “What is it that I’m going to do in the world?” he asked. “Preach to the masses?”

Rose studied his face intently. “Naw,” she said at last, “Ya ain’t gonna be a priest like the abbé.”

This he didn’t expect. “I thought you said I was an angel?”

“Aye.”

“So…?”

“That don’t mean yer a priest.”

“Then what am I?” Zephyrin laughed.

“A prince!” the girl stated matter-of-factly. Zephyrin didn’t react outwardly at the word, but a strange impression came over him at her words. A sense of disquiet. Even the cool, early spring breeze seemed to momentarily fall still at her words, the world hushing itself to listen to the peasant girl’s speech.

“… I see,” he finally said, unsure of how else reply. Really, he couldn’t make heads nor tails of this girl. Was this a child’s or baseblood’s intuition speaking?

Maybe both, he thought, as Rose moved in close.

“It’s awright, Sephrin!” she said, patting him on the shoulder in a consolatory manner, having misinterpreted his troubled expression. “Not ev’ry boy can be a priest!”

Zephyrin smiled wryly. “I suppose I’ll have to console myself as best I can with the throne you’ve prophesied.”

“Ya might struggle wi’ that,” the girl remarked diffidently. “A throne piles a load o’ cares on a man. That’s what pa alwey sez. ‘Ee sez its ‘ard work carryin’ a bundle o’ kindlin’ on yer back, but the king has it harder, bearin’ a country on ‘is shoulders.”

“… Your father sounds like a very wise man.”

“Aye.” For some reason, Rose fidgeted as if the thought of her father brought unpleasant thoughts to mind. Zephyrin elected not to pry.

“Well, I’d best be on my way home now.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “Aww, ya can’t go yet, Sephrin! Ya ain’t ev’n seen sunset from mount-top! It’s grand, it is!” She pointed in the opposite direction where Zephyrin had descended.

“There’s another path up the mountain?” This he wasn’t aware of.

Rose nodded vigorously. “Aye! Ov’r yonder, thro’ the trees! C’mon, I’ll show you!”

“Oh, that’s all ri—”

“Hup-up! Hup-up!” Rose called out to her sheep through cupped hands. Lifting their heads from the yellow grass, they looked at her for a moment, eyes blank, their mouths working away placidly. Then, partly to Zephyrin’s surprise, partly to his amusement, they began uniformly ambling after Rose, a formation of woolly troops loyally marching after their smock-frocked general.

Rose grinned. “C’mon, Sephrin!” So saying, she grabbed his hand and began pulling him along up the hill, Zephyrin following bemusedly.