What, why do you cry? Oh dear, Isanya has mocked you because she thinks you not
beautiful? Well, never mind that, my dear little pup. Do you see the flowers?
Are they not lovely? Well, then, Sit here and I will tell you a tale of the
flowers and She who painted them, long ago and far away.

Once, in the dawn of the world, when no shadow yet lay on the Basin and no
whisper of the Soulless ones had ever come from the Void, the Elders dwelt in
Lusternia. From the First World they shaped a paradise, a green garden of all
things beautiful and blessed, for their joy and amusement, and all things
rejoiced.

Yet even then, in the halcyon and carefree days, all was not perfect. In a
valley deep within the mountains, all was grey and dreary, and though the young
Sun and the Moon blessed that place with their generous rays, all the plants
that grew there were dull and unremarkable, forlorn in shades of dull grey or
brown.

The wild flowers that grew there had never yet seen the outside world, and
could not comprehend what they missed. Yet, upon a morning, there strayed into
the valley something else: a visiting butterfly, bright as flame against the
dullness of that place, who looked with surprise and pity upon the wild
flowers.

"Oh, my friends," said the butterfly. "Why are you not beautiful?"

The flowers murmured in the wind, for they did not understand. And one among
them, whom the mortal races later named the rose, asked, "Stranger, we do not
know what you speak of. We see that your appearance bears the colours of the
sun and moon and the dusk, yet you seem to be like us in your nature. Surely
this is a marvel!"

"It is not," said the butterfly. "Beyond the walls of the valley is a wider
world, full of colours that you can never imagine. Oh, if I could describe to
you the green of the forests when the sun slants through their leaves, or the
sparkling blue of the sea, or the beauty of light shining through the crystal
spires wrought by the gods!"

At this the bluebell raised its head, and a longing rose in it at the
butterfly's words. "Tell me of it, friend, and describe it to me, that I may
know it!"

"But you would not understand, you who spend your lives here. Truly you are
unfortunate, for in that wider world all things have either long life or
beauty, but you have neither. For look! Your colours are that of dust and mud
and slime, like the foul things of the world." Then, in great pity, it
fluttered away.

A great agitation rose through the flowers, and they mourned for what they
heard. "Why should we alone be unblessed?" they asked, and though the mountain
winds bore their question far and wide, they received no answer, and many
despaired; especially the water lily, which grew in a small pond, its roots
fixed deep in slime. It hung its head for shame, and dared not look up at the
sky, thinking itself foul and base.

At length their sighs reached the ears of one of the Fourth Circle: those
Elders who walked the green earth beneath star and sun, the Artists who took
the First World for their canvas. One heard, and She marvelled greatly that any
who dwelt in the Basin could be unhappy, at a time when the Gods knew only joy,
and wrought one perfect day after another.

She raised Her golden eyes to the far mountains, and looked thoughtfully at Her
palette, which bore the many colours She had scattered across the Basin: the
lilac of heather and the silver of sweetgrass, sunny yellow and granite red,
sand-gold and sky-blue and forest-green. She gathered Her paints, and swiftly
came to that dim grey vale, deep in the shadow of the mountains, and to the
flowers that grew there it seemed that the Sun itself had descended into their
midst.

"What ails you, little ones?" asked the Wanderer, and the rose replied, "Once
we were content, thinking the world was only this small valley, and all lives
as short as ours. Yet now we have heard of the world outside, and of beauty and
colour, and we are aggrieved that we have neither beauty nor longevity, that our
existence is both dull and brief. We are not the comets in the sky, burning
brightly and vanishing in glory; nor are we like the rocks, sturdy and
eternal."

The Wanderer replied, "You speak true, and beauty is to be treasured. Yet tell
me this. If there was a choice between beauty and one other thing you desired,
how would you choose, and what would it be?"

Then all the blossoms were silent, until at last the bluebell spoke. "Our
friend the butterfly has spoken of the forests and their beauty," it said. "I
should like to see them, I think, even if I cannot add to their loveliness. To
be surrounded by colour will be already a great blessing."

The rose said, "I would forego beauty for strength. Many times the wild beasts
have come in the day and torn away my kin, not even for such a reason as food,
but merely out of carelessness. Give me weapons, that I may defend them, and
seeing them safe I will be glad.

Then one by one the flowers spoke their wishes, and each was as different from
the other as snowflakes in winter. Then at last the water-lily spoke. "I grow
in mud, and wilt in shame," it said. "I desire above all purity, to be far
removed from all things foul, even though my roots go deep in the slime of the
pond. Then maybe I shall prove that good things may come from foul ones, and
that origin does not determine all!"

All the flowers fell silent at this, and at length the bluebell spoke again.
"Perhaps," it said thoughtfully, "We did not need to be beautiful as much as we
thought. For You have asked each of us to name what we wanted, and our greatest
desires were never for beauty. I do not know about my fellows, but I for one
shall be content." And it raised its petals to the sun, drinking in the warmth
of the day.

One by one the flowers agreed, and they were glad once more, setting their
agitation aside; but the Wanderer raised a hand for silence, and looked deep
and searchingly within each flower. Then, gathering Her palette close, She
began to paint, and magic blossomed within that valley.

The rose flourished blood-red, and from its stem grew sharp and bitter thorns,
the weapons it craved to ward its kind with. It bloomed with a fierce
loveliness, beautiful and dangerous, to be admired but not tamed. It saw that
it was strong, and it was glad.

The gentle bluebell was suffused with a colour like the calm and cloudless sky
above, and to its joy found that it could grow swiftly and in great swathes,
and in exhilaration it set off for the forests the butterfly had spoken of. In
the pure forests now it still dwells, and lend beauty to the forests, which are
named bluebell woods in its honour.

The white lily paled and became white as snow, unfurling above the murk of the
pond it grew in. With its bowed head it saw its own reflection, and saw that it
was not foul but beautiful and bright. It raised its petals once more to the
bright skies above, standing straight and unafraid, and it too was glad.

One by one the flowers bloomed, admiring their own colours and rejoicing in the
tapestry they formed, bright as a rainbow against the grey stone of the valley.
And when the last petal of the last flower was painted, it cried, "Praised be,
for You have made us beautiful."

The Wanderer stood and smiled, and said softly, "No, for you always were. I did
but give shape to what was there in the spirit." Then She turned to leave, but
the flowers followed and bloomed in Her footsteps, surrounding Her wherever She
travelled with vibrant beauty, with colour and with life, seeking to return the
gift they were given: that of giving shape to spirit.

So do not fret, if it seems to you that beauty is hard to find, or if others
mock you. The beauty within will yet shine through, and you will shine brighter
than many, my dear child.