Queen of Hearts - Claim 2
In a quiet valley hidden between low, dreaming hills, there lies a stretch of land the locals simply call the Heartfields. From a distance it looks like something forgotten by the sky - broad swathes of wildflowers woven together in colors so rich that the seasons seem to linger there longer than anywhere else. In spring, the fields awaken in soft pastels; by summer they blaze with crimson poppies, violet lupine, golden buttercups, and clouds of white yarrow that shimmer like fallen stars. Even in autumn, when other meadows fade, the Heartfields glow in dusky reds and rose-tinted gold, as though the earth itself remembers a secret warmth.
Travelers come from all over for the beauty, but they stay for the story. For it is said that when the wind grows gentle and the light falls slant and honey-soft across the valley, a mare appears among the flowers - a creature so striking, so quietly regal, that those who glimpse her rarely speak of anything else for the rest of their lives. They call her the Queen of Hearts. No one really knows where she came from; some say she was born of a storm that passed over the valley many years ago, when thunder rolled like distant drums and the rain fell red in the sunset light. Others believe she is older than the fields themselves, a spirit of the land given form, walking softly so the flowers might remember how to bloom.
Those who have seen her describe her coat first, because it is impossible to forget: she carries the deep, burnished tones of a liver-red roan, rich and dark like polished mahogany dusted with silver ash. Across her hind legs and the lower curve of her belly spreads a pale splash, as if moonlight once spilled over her and never quite left. The markings climb upward in soft, irregular edges, bright against the darker red, giving the impression that she has stepped through clouds and brought pieces of them back with her. But it is truly her face that gives her name. Her head is a gentle grey, the color of early morning mist, smooth and luminous. Around her eyes lies a marking shaped unmistakably like a heart, warm and vivid against the pale grey, as though someone pressed a drop of living crimson there long ago. When she lifts her head and the sunlight catches that mark, it seems almost to glow.
Those who meet her gaze say there is nothing wild or fearful in it. Only a quiet, ancient kindness; and something like memory. She is most often seen at dawn or in the long hush of evening. The mare does not gallop across the fields as ordinary horses might. Instead, she walks slowly, deliberately, as though every step matters. Her hooves fall so lightly that the flowers bend but do not break, and wherever she passes, so travelers say, the stems seem to straighten afterward, stronger than before. Sometimes she even lowers her head and breathes into the blossoms. Witnesses swear the flowers respond, like petals turning towards her, their colors deepening and scents rising sweet and sudden in the air. She moves from patch to patch, pausing over poppies, lingering among clover, pressing her soft grey muzzle into the wild roses that grow near the edges of the valley.
And sometimes, the legend explains, when she believes no one is watching, the Queen of Hearts plays. In the warmest parts of the afternoon, she chooses a wide stretch where the grass grows thick beneath the flowers. Is is then there that she folds her legs, lowers herself carefully, and rolls - first to one side, then the other, her dark coat flashing through red and gold petals. When she rises again, bits of blossom cling to her mane and tail, and for a moment she looks less like a creature of legend and more like a young horse delighting in the simple joy of the earth. But even then, there is something… magical in the way she shakes herself and stands afterward, lifting her head high with that heart-mark bright, as though acknowledging the land and its quiet companionship.
Even the valley itself seems to change when she is near. Birdsong grows fuller and the air warms as breezes carry the scent of flowers farther than usual, drifting into nearby villages where people pause in their work and wonder why the day suddenly feels kinder. Farmers say their crops grow better in years when she is seen often, and the children claim that if you make a wish while she is walking the fields, it may not come true exactly - but your heart will grow strong enough to bear whatever does.
Of course, not everyone believes. Some insist she is simply a rare horse escaped from some distant estate, whereas others say the heart-shaped marking is coincidence, and that stories grow larger each time they are told.
Yet even the skeptics grow quiet when they visit the valley at dusk. Because sometimes, just as the light turns rose-colored and the shadows stretch long between the flowers, a shape moves in the distance: dark red and silver, slow and graceful; and when that shape lifts its head, the grey face catches the last light of day, and for one breathless moment, the heart around her eyes shines like a living ember. The Queen of Hearts never approaches people closely. If someone walks towards her, she simply turns and drifts away, unhurried, vanishing into taller grasses or over a low rise. No fence has ever held her, and no track ever clearly shows where she goes when she leaves.
But now and then, a lucky solitary traveler who sits quietly among the flowers without reaching, without calling, has reported something different. Something like a soft sound behind them and then the warmth of breath at their shoulder. Followed by the gentle, questioning nicker of a mare who seems to ask never for ownership nor praise, but instead for calm and stillness, for simply a shared moment beneath the open sky. Those who experience this often say they feel lighter afterward, as though some old worry has been carried away on her quiet steps.
And so the Heartfields remain as they are: a place of colorful flowers and stories passed softly from one voice to another. If you ever walk there at sunrise, when dew clings to the petals and the world has not yet remembered its troubles, you may see her moving between the flowers… liver-red and silver, moon-splashed and proud, heart-mark glowing against the pale grey of her face. She will never belong to the land, but the land will always belong to her.
And somewhere in the hush of wind and blossoms, you will understand why they call her the Queen of Hearts.
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This particular Sunday unfolded slowly, as if the world itself had decided to take a breath. The sky was wide and blue above the winding country road, streaked with thin clouds that looked like brushstrokes across a painted ceiling. Alice sat in the back seat of the family car, her knees tucked up and her forehead resting lightly against the cool glass while fields rolled past in long waves of green and gold, broken here and there by clusters of trees, old stone walls, and the occasional farmhouse standing quiet and abandoned in the distance.
They had been driving for hours. Their little road trip - her father liked to call it an “adventure without a schedule” - had already taken them through multiple villages and forests, and narrow lanes that twisted between hills. At first, the excitement had been enough to keep everyone talking and pointing things out, but now the car had grown softer with tiredness. Her younger brother and sister were arguing quietly over a bag of biscuits and her mother was reading directions from a folded map, though they had no real destination. All that while her father hummed along to the Beatles song on the radio, tapping the steering wheel as if the road itself were keeping time.
At one point the landscape changed. The fields grew wider, the hills gentler, and color began to spread across the land - this time not just green, but patches of red, yellow, purple, and white, scattered like spilled paint. Her mother leaned forward. “Let’s stop here.”, she said, “This looks perfect.” The car slowed, then turned onto a narrow gravel path that curved towards an open meadow bordered by low hedges and wild shrubs. When they all finally stepped out, the air was warm and carried the soft, sweet scent of flowers and sun-warmed grass.
The family decided almost immediately: picnic. A blanket was quickly spread beneath the shade of a broad tree near the edge of the meadow, while Alice’s father unpacked a basket filled with sandwiches, fruit, snacks, and lemonade. Her mother began arranging everything with careful hands, while her younger siblings ran in wide circles, chasing each other through the grass as if the open space were a playground made just for them. Alice helped for a moment; handing out napkins, opening containers, but her attention kept drifting outwards.
The fields seemed to stretch forever. And something about the place felt… inviting. “Mama, can I explore a little?”, she asked.
Her mother glanced up, “Not too far. Stay where you can see the tree.”
Alice nodded, already stepping away. The grass brushed against her legs as she walked. Butterflies flickered from flower to flower, and the air held that rich, green smell that only came from wild places untouched by roads and fences. She followed no path, only curiosity. Near the edge of the meadow she found a low bush heavy with small dark berries. She crouched, examining them carefully: round, deep purple and growing in clusters. “Blackberries!”, she whispered to herself. She picked one, then another, tasting them. They were warm from the sun and sweet with just a hint of tartness. Juice stained her fingertips as she ate a few more, careful not to take too many.
The simple pleasure of it made her smile. After wiping her hands on the grass, she stood and continued walking. The land dipped slightly, then rose again, and as she climbed the gentle slope, the air seemed to change. The breeze carried a stronger scent now, floral and soft, like honey and summer mixed together. When she reached the top, she stopped: below her lay a field unlike any she had ever seen, flowers covering it completely, and not in neat rows or organized patches, but in a wild, flowing sea of color - red poppies swaying beside golden buttercups, clusters of purple and blue scattered between clouds of tiny white blossoms. The grass beneath them was thick and green, but mostly hidden beneath petals. The sunlight made the entire field glow.
For a long moment, Alice forgot to move. She then walked down slowly, careful where she stepped, as if afraid the beauty might disappear if she hurried. The flowers brushed against her hands while a pair of bees drifted lazily between blooms. The wind moved through the field in soft waves, making the colors ripple like water. She turned in a slow circle, smiling. “This is amazing-“, she whispered.
And then - something touched her back. It wasn’t an aggressive push nor a bump, but more like a soft, gentle pressure, like a careful and curious boop. Alice froze on the spot. Oh my god, was that a spider?
The young girl slowly turned around, her heart jumping into her throat. No, it wasn’t a spider. Behind her was a pony. But Alice wasn’t stupid, she knew instantly that this wasn’t just any pony.
The mare was small but elegant, her build refined and balanced, her posture calm and proud. Her coat shimmered in the sunlight; a deep liver red, dark and rich like polished wood dusted with silver. Across her hind legs and along part of her belly spread a pale splash, bright against the darker tones, as if moonlight had spilled across her and stayed there. It was like the folktales. Even her chunky mane fell softly along her neck, a mixture of red and silver strands that caught the light. And her face… of course, it was grey. Smooth, luminous. Around her eyes lay a marking shaped unmistakably like a heart, deep and warm in color, perfectly centered, as though painted there by careful hands.
The stories her mother had told her before bed suddenly rushed back to Alice all at once. The stories about the fields and the flowers, the gentle mare seen among the bushes. Her breath left her in a tiny gasp. “The Queen of Hearts-“, she whispered, and the pony’s ears flicked forward. Then the mare stepped closer, lowering her head slightly. Her eyes were curious, and kind as she reached forward again, touching Alice’s shoulder lightly with her nose. The young girl squealed in pure delight.
“Oh my gosh! It’s really you!”, she giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth as if worried she might scare her away, but the Queen of Hearts did not move. The red roan stood, breathing softly, her poofy tail swishing once through the taller flowers. Alice laughed, the sound bubbling out of her. “You’re real.”, she said, her small voice full of wonder. Carefully, slowly, she reached out, her fingers touching the mare’s neck. The coat was warm and smooth, the roan hairs soft under her hand. The pony leaned ever so slightly into the touch, closing her eyes halfway. Encouraged, Alice looked around.
The field was full of flowers, and an idea came to her immediately. “Okay, pretty lady, wait here-“, she whispered, though the mare had not shown any sign of leaving. Alice moved through the flowers, selecting carefully - a handful of small white blossoms, a few bright yellow ones, and several tiny purple flowers that would hold their shape. She gathered a handful, then returned. The Queen of Hearts watched her, head tilted slightly. Alice separated the short mane gently, working slowly the way she had once learned while braiding a friend’s horse at a stable. She wove the stems carefully through the strands of red and silver, tying them loosely so they would hold without pulling.
The mare stood perfectly still through it all. Occasionally she lowered her head to sniff the flowers Alice had tucked into her mane, as if approving the choice. Alice giggled again. “You look beautiful-“, she breathed. When the girl finally finished, the effect was magical: little bursts of color scattered along the mane, as if the field itself had chosen her as its queen. The wind moved through them, and the flowers trembled softly against the silver strands. The Queen of Hearts neighed approvingly, then lowered her head to sniff the surrounding blooms, occasionally nudging one aside or breathing deeply into a cluster of poppies. Once, she stepped forward and rolled her lips gently over a patch of clover, then lifted her head again with quiet satisfaction.
Alice followed beside her, one hand resting lightly against her shoulder. Then, the mare paused and turned her head towards Alice again and their eyes met. With the same calm grace she had arrived, the Queen of Hearts suddenly stepped away, moving deeper into the field. She walked slowly between the flowers, the braids swaying gently, the heart-shaped marking bright in the sunlight. At the crest of a small rise, she turned once more. For a brief moment, she stood there, and then she disappeared into the colors. Alice stood very still, her heart racing, her hands still faintly smelling of grass and blossoms. “Oh my-“, she whispered to herself, turning back towards her family’s picnic, now knowing something very important.
The stories were true.
