A young woman danced into the palace gardens. She wore a blue silken robe embroidered along its seams in silver with marvelous floral patterns. A single white rose, masterfully woven into the silk, lay upon the left breast covering her heart. Beneath the silk could be seen a thin linen undergarment of similar craftsmanship, yet simpler. She wore nothing on her feet and let her bare skin revel in the texture of the soft garden grass. It was evening and some important visitor had come to beseech her father. She cared not for the politics or pooling of power that lay in the King's mighty halls. She far preferred the company of Nature and of song. The beautiful pond that her father had made for her gave both at once - its clear waters reverberating whenever she might play her violin nearby and morphing with vibrant colours at every weeping note of the instrument.

  She glided, the spinning flow of her movements painting swirling patterns in the moonlit grass, toward the center of the garden where a massive sycamore stood towering over all the minor foliage beneath. The springtime brought the lilacs into bloom surrounding the courtyard, but it was the tree that she most enjoyed. She would climb up almost every evening, as the sun, ever courtly in his manner, left sway to his blushing bride, the moon, for the whole of the night. Only, it seemed to the girl quite unfair that as the warmth came in springtime and persisted in summer that the sun became greedy and mastered more of the days' time leaving his lovely bride to hide her face more often than she ought.

  Such simple thoughts caressed the young woman's mind as she alighted to one of the lower branches in the sycamore tree and sat down, her bare feet dangling as she looked up at the moon and stars through a veil of newborn leaves. She adored the night sky. She would often sit under these very branches and practice playing, giving herself over to the night, the mystique of the melody, the gentle hum of the strings drawn against the bow. Other nights she would sit and soak in the silence, letting it permeate her body. The symphony of the night would join her, cicadas, nightingales, the whistling of the wind, and brief moments of hallowed silence, first rate musicians all. Her music, and this pond, helped break the spell of despair cast by her mother's passing.

  #

  Her mother was beautiful, never surpassed by any on earth, or so her father often said. She died giving birth to the King's only son eight long winters past. The tragedy was compounded as the child was born and did not weep or cry at all. The midwife took the babe into a bundle of silken cloth and was quick to cover its face. The word hovered in the birthing room like a plague, a miasma of total dejection, "Stillborn." Not only had her mother passed, but her little brother too in the span of a few moments. How often do death and life so closely intermingle? Are they lovers too, she thought to herself, tears beginning to besiege her as the memory assailed her mind, like the sun and the moon?

  After her mother's passing, the girl's despair was absolute for a time. No joy could penetrate the internal armour she wore, and the walls she erected extinguished every flaming arrow of hope until her tenth winter, and the celebrated day of her birth came. A large party was engaged and entertainers were brought from all manner of exotic locations - knife jugglers and performers from the Buthani tribes to the South, Druids from the Highland Gaels in the Northeast, Bear-wrestlers and smiths from the Orias lands far in the north near the Crown of the World, even musicians and lords and ladies of leisure from the Gotei Islands to the Eastern most edge of the continent, sitting defiant on the Silent Sea.

  The King had doted upon his daughter all the more after her mother and brother's passing. She alone remained as an object of affection, and he lavished every gift he could upon her. For him, her despair was akin to his own, and her joy the very joy he would open his heart to. Yet, all the feasting and gifting and jovial entertainment in the kingdom could not tear her from her despondent thoughts. It is of lasting and mortal lethality for one to be alone, and loneliness was as a garland about her neck in those days, one that she would not deign to remove. A funny thing, is solitude, when amidst a thousand one can feel more to themselves and rejected than sitting silently on a tree branch under the pale moon's light.

  Only one thing among the broad swathe of entertainment held any sway with the princess. There was a man, mid thirties perhaps, though north or south it would not have mattered. She didn't even see his face, nor would she recognize him were they to meet again. No, she saw his hands alone as he played a fiddle with gusto and force and filled the room with palpable joy at the highest moments, and shy sorrow in the lowest. His performance, while not enough to break despair, haunted Ariadne. When she thought of that music, the bow drawn across the strings, the reverberation of emotion made physical, she could not help but feel an inkling of longing.

  After the festivities, the King sent all of them away. Every guard, every well-wisher, every friend or acquaintance was ushered out and the King and his daughter were together alone. She remembered that day with more force and quality even than the day her mother passed, though joy is more fleeting company than pain. The fiddler's performance had shaken up the walls around her heart, creating deep cracks in every battlement. Soon they would tumble, and she would emerge another thing entire, transformed.

  He father was gentle, his massive strength held in check as he took her tiny hand and led her into the palace gardens. He picked her up and set her in the giant tree and bade her listen and watch. "Be patient my little princess, and very still," He commanded with the utmost love. And then he began to speak, not to her but to the garden, the very land itself, to The POET perhaps...

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  Upon this placid lovely spot,

  Beneath the tree so old and tall

  Spring forth life's ichor heav'nly wrought,

  To fill a pond not great nor small,

  With Peace Undying.

  The very form of passive grace,

  Manifest on this Hallowed ground.

  Joy leap forth beyond time and space,

  Nature's glorious song resound,

  And silence sorrow's melody.

  Serenity's most tender kiss

  Upon my daughter's tear-stained cheek,

  I bid you, Lord, be not remiss,

  To bear forth the comfort I seek;

  Lavished on my love.

  Defend her night and day, O dear Father,

  Her mind, body and soul.

  Let not despair extend his wretched hand

  Toward my darling daughter.

  Consume the darkness of the world below,

  And show forth sublime light.

  Forevermore.

  As he spoke, the ground beneath the boughs of the tree rippled like water. It lurched and heaved and retreated from a center point creating a perfect circle. About the circle, lilies sprouted in a rainbow of colour, shades of green and blue, orange and red, some purple, pink and white. The colours astounded the princess as she saw them grow and bloom right before her eyes as if time had put his chariot in gallop just for her. In the middle of the circle, water shot up in a spray of crystalline beauty and took the form of an eagle that rushed past her, brushing her hair with its wing. Then the eagle rose high and dove downward into the ever-growing pool of liquid to fill it the more. The water kept on for some time, taking forms and shapes of lovely birds and beasts that danced and played upon the pond then dove in to fill it ever deeper. A hare was chased by a limping wolf. A mother bear embraced her cubs. A pride of lions lounged upon the rocks watching uninterested as mercurial pronghorns galloped along. Each vision arose for mere moments, their shapes and forms always returning to fill the pool with life. She watched in silence for a long time but her sorrow broke finally and she giggled and cheered as two liquid foxes chased each other around the pond until one pounced on the other, and both splashed in to take their part in the greater whole.

  After a long while, the shapes and forms ceased and the pond, once thriving with all sorts of strange and wondrous shapes of life, took on a form of purest stillness. No bottom could be seen. From where the princess sat she thought that it must be infinitely deep. Then, when the moon's light shone upon the water, its colours shifted. It became a light and playful topaz and stood still before her. Her father watched his princess throughout the show. It was his power that had created such stunning beauty, but it was her who had inspired him. Every giggle, smile, and tear she shed was his to share.

  "This is my gift to you, precious princess, a touch of tranquility in a difficult time. The pond's secrets are for you alone to discover, as all poetry has its nuances that even the poet cannot know without further searching. It is your pond, yours and yours alone, Ariadne. I pray deeply that it brings you comfort." A single tear escaped his eyes as his daughter leapt off the sycamore branch, into her father's arms and hugged him about his neck.

  "Daddy" she said, and nothing more, as the walls of her pain came crashing down in gentle sobs, and her father held her.

  #

  That was so many years ago, now, and she, seventeen winters old, a woman now, still held her love for music, now a vibrant musician and performer herself. Yet, still she could not escape her love for the pond. After a time, she chose a name for the pond, one that expressed just how she had felt upon the day her father had made it for her, something that the words of a little girl could not express. She called it Serenity's Kiss, and ever it gave her peace.

  A voice spoke in the stillness,

  “Peace surpassing comes

  Fostered by the cool water

  Raging Sorrow Stills”

  As the words were spoken, the sound of a foreign voice and a rising pressure startled Ariadne out of her nostalgia and into the present moment. She sat quite still and realized that a young man stood beside Serenity's Kiss just beneath the tree where she sat. She could not see his face, but his hair was a dirty blonde and he wore very simple clothing and a sword in a white scabbard hung at his side. He seemed to exude an aura of power, it thrummed around him as if the very air mimicked his heartbeat. She was scared for a moment, until she began to think of what he had said. His aura felt calm, steady, gentle. It was gentle like her father, like a great ocean full of magnificent power held in restraint, but under its surface it was churning and dangerous. The thrumming subsided, breakers of power relaxed into smooth waters as he took deep breaths. He too sought peace.

  When did he get here? Ariadne thought. Was I so oblivious in my remembrances that I didn't notice him? Does he know I am here? A slight twinge of fear shot up her spine again as she realized the possible danger but subsided as she continued to think. My father would not allow just anyone into the garden. He must be a guest of some importance. She sat in curiosity fueled stasis staring at the young man, staring at the pond. Time stretched as the two of them remained under the moonlight, each intent upon silence and stillness, each seeking answers to questions they dared not ask.

  Finally, Ariadne worked up the courage to say something to the man, to break the silence and satisfy her raging curiosity, but, just as she opened her mouth to speak, the man turned away from the pond and she caught a glimpse of him. Tears ran down the right side of his face, left crystal trails in their wake, broke free of his flesh beneath his chin, and fell onto the colourful tulips that surrounded the pond. She no longer had the heart to speak up, as the anguish in his soul seemed to buffet her with wailing winds of grief. Casting his eyes to the ground, the young man walked away towards the castle, composing himself and standing straighter with each step. When he was long gone, Ariadne placed her instrument to her chin, drew the bow with utmost care once across the strings, and began to play the pain she had witnessed in his eyes. She played until her vision clouded, until there was nothing to feel but the vibrations of the string, the resonance of the wood, the firm branch of the tree beneath her, and the taste of salt on her lips.