“The king has returned!” Trish cupped her hands around her mouth to shout the call as her hooves beat against the stone streets. 

 

It all happened so fast. In earlier days, she watched with vigilance, always ready to send out the call. For generations, the centaurs offered their fastest messengers to the front lines, awaiting the day of the king’s return. Being chosen was the highest honor a young messenger could receive, but after so many years, hopelessness stirred into ambivalence. Now the time had come, and she awoke to trumpet blasts.  

 

Long lost anticipation beat through the city as Trish galloped down the road, heart pounding faster than her hooves. “It’s time!” 

 

A soldier leaned out of a tent as she passed. “What?” 

 

She continued down the road. “The king has returned!” 

 

The commander shouted orders to the guards at the wall. 

 

“They’re here,” she called to the blacksmith, who hung up his apron and called to his family. 

 

“He’s here,” she called to the mothers who hurried their children out the door. 

 

All species, great and small, responded the same. The fighters laid down weapons, and their kin trailed behind them with food and drink. The songs began as Trish passed into the dusty roads of the country. She longed to join them at the gate. If she hadn’t fallen asleep maybe she’d be there, but an unfinished job would bring even more disgrace. 

 

Trish called until dust filled her lungs and her throat ached. The wind knotted her hair and tail. Mud caked her hooves. She traveled until every farmer, worker, soldier, man, woman, and child heard the news. Once she passed the last settlement and shouts echoed from the main city, she turned back to the gate.  

 

She couldn’t miss the arrival. It was her duty. It was her joy. This was her only chance.   

 

Foot, hoof, and paw prints covered the ground. A few cloaks lay forgotten. Tree branches lined the path. Not a soul was left to remove them. She’d missed the welcome, but there was still a chance. 

 

Lights streamed through the palace windows. Music and voices carried through the walls. Maybe she could still get in. Maybe no one had to know how late she was. She trotted up to the door and turned the golden handle. Locked. 

 

She was too late. The biting air and lonely night served as punishment for neglecting her watch. She couldn’t be seen like this anyways. The day had scorched her skin and sweat glued her tunic to her back. Dirt stuck to her legs in clumps. Her hair was a tangled mess fit only to house rats, and her tail was worse. Those inside would be polished and clean, while she reeked of the day’s work. 

 

Out of energy and out of options, she knelt down and cried. 

 

Trish didn’t know how long she sat on the polished veranda, legs curled beneath her, tears streaming down her face. Long enough for the wind to toss back her ruined hair. Long enough for owls to fill the air with their nighttime laments. Long enough for the tears to dry on her face leaving cold streaks in the filth. 

 

“Why aren’t you inside?” a solemn voice said from far away.  

 

Trish swung her head around, searching for the source. A small lamb stood down the steps to her left. She was twice, no three times, his size, yet the way he strode up the stairs made her feel like the small one. 

 

“I can’t get in.” She sniffed. “They locked the doors.” 

 

“Did you knock?” 

 

“Look at me.” She gestured to her dirt covered body. “They would never let me in.” 

 

“Is that really why?” His dark eyes stared into her. 

 

She lowered her head. “I don’t deserve to go in. I slept through my watch and was late to tell the others.” Her hair covered her face, soaking up her tears. “I do wish I could have met the king. They say everyone gets a single chance in their life to see him.” 

 

“No one deserves to go in.” He reached the top steps and continued past her. His gaze was warm and friendly as he moved past her. “Follow me.” 

 

She did. His soft feet tread gently across the hollow platform. Her hooves thudded heavily behind. 

 

“Where are we going?” She stooped her neck to talk to him. 

 

“The day has worn you down. Would you like to get cleaned up?” 

 

She nodded. “Yes.” 

 

He led her to a gate beside the massive doors. Through it was an alcove with a well and a bucket. The lamb hopped onto his back legs and pushed down on the pump. Water streamed from the spout into the bucket.  

 

She knelt down and scooped up the water with her hands. She threw it on her face, her arms, and her back until her shirt and hair were soaked through. She scrubbed until her skin turned red and brown dirty puddles pooled at her feet. 

 

“Turn around,” the lamb spoke, she obeyed. 

 

He guided her tail into the bucket with his head. 

 

“Wait.” She pawed at the ground. “You can’t, you’ll get dirty.” 

 

“I can, I just need you to let me.” 

 

Unable to say no to his resonant voice, she turned forward again. Afraid of seeing his beautiful wool dirtied, she closed her eyes. His hooves worked through the knots one by one. After only a few moments she felt all the dust sink into the water as her tail hung damp and loose.  

 

She stepped away from the bucket and flicked the water out of her tail. An excited squeal bubbled up from her throat. She felt lighter without the layers of dirt.  

 

“Are you ready to knock?”  

 

“What if they still won’t let me in? What if he doesn’t accept me?” 

 

“He does.” 

 

She turned to say thank you, but the lamb was gone. She hurried out of the alcove and searched for him across the steps. He was nowhere to be seen, but the door loomed just ahead, waiting for her.  

 

She took a deep breath and knocked. 

​