Arcadia was a typical griffon city : tall mezzanines stacked across the slope of a mountainside, giving it the appearance of a titanic stairway to the summit. Each step was covered in tall stone towers of all shapes and sizes, all conveniently protected from the leading winds by the mass of the peak and the careful planning and placement of the city itself. There was no need for walls for such a city, as there were very few roads to reach it, and even those were obscure and treacherous. Most citizens could and usually did fly to and from the city, negating the use of such land-based paths. If a foe were to attack Arcadia, it would do so from the air in any case.

On this crystal-clear winter day, mere days before the solstice, the citizens went about their usual business, buying, selling, flying, moving, carrying, sending, receiving. Some young ones played in the air or in the snow, while others of all ages simply wandered about, enjoying the exceptionally clear sky and the calm winds despite the cold.

On one of the lower plateaus, however, the mood was markedly different; a small cemetery was slowly filling with visitors. At first there were only two, laboriously digging a fresh grave through the solid frozen earth, followed some time later by a small group carrying an even smaller coffin of crude unpolished wood. Then more came, trickling in through the wrought-iron gates as the minutes passed. A lone pony walked up to the hole, a simple carved stone strapped to his back.

The diggers soon finished and helped him set the headstone, before all three stepped back into the growing crowd.
Through the tightly-packed buildings around the resting place, some meager rays of sunlight made their way to cast shadows of the crowd on the hard soil beneath them. The crowd now numbered a hundred or so, mostly griffons but with about two dozen ponies also present. Some stragglers kept arriving every few minutes, joining the quiet mass.

Most attendees were dressed in torn rags and worn-out vestments, all woefully inadequate for both the altitude and the time of year. Some others were simply naked, braving the chill with nothing but feather and fur. Many were huddled in groups to alleviate the cold and the burden of their grief. Gusts of wind, although rare on this serene day, sporadically blew through the crowd, chilling them long enough that they often didn’t have time to stop shivering before the next gust came. Powdery snow flew about, settling on their backs before getting blown away to land on another’s shoulders, or on the ground between them.

All present had paid to be there, paid as much as they felt they could to earn their place there. Some had even compromised their next meal's very existence in order to banish the shame of coming there without giving something back to the one they were here to mourn. They owed so much, and all wanted to contribute. Their measly resources had been pooled to make this occasion feasible, to honor the dead to their fullest.

Still, they hadn’t been able to afford a proper coffin and had resorted to buying crude wood and nails, and borrowing tools to build the shapeless box waiting in front of them. They felt it was nowhere near appropriate, but it was the best they could have done.

As the minutes passed, whispers traveled among the crowd. Waiting was tedious, and despite the respect they held for the departed, some simply tried to bring their minds away from their feelings with idle chatter. It was temporary, of course, as the current situation was difficult to ignore, but it provided some relief. Besides, some still had questions, as the news were often hard to come by for these people. The ceremony had yet to start anyway, giving them a good few minutes to catch up on recent topics. In the meantime, a line formed, letting all who wished to do so go up to the coffin and offer silent prayers to the deceased pony inside. Some put a hoof or claw on the lid, some draped a wing over it, and some simply laid their head on the wood and held it there for a few seconds as the gathered onlookers murmured.

“What happened?” asked a few in hushed tones.

“They found her dead in a snow pile last Tuesday.”

“What? But how?” asked Margret, who lived in a decrepit one-room apartment with her two cats.

Brutus, who had been a private investigator at some point, answered:

“Dunno, I asked Glimmer Badge, y’know, my old contact in the force, an’ ‘e said it didn’t look like a crime scene an’ she wasn’t important enough to get a full autopsy, so it’s anyone’s guess, y’know.”

Gellia, the biggest gossip beak in the slums, piped in: “Might’ve been a stroke, or a heart attack or something. You know how it is at our age.”

“How old was she even?” Tiny Twig Hoof’s voice rose above the rest of the whispers. The young colt had a hard time grasping how such grave situations warranted a lowered tone of voice. His question went unanswered, partly for its perceived rudeness but mostly because no one knew the answer.

Further in the forest of bodies, other questions arose.

“Who found her?”

“One of them factory workers, I reckon.” The burly Coalfeathers answered his wife, Deirdre.

“Why are we the ones burying her? Didn’t she have a family or something?” Very few knew the dark, surly griffon who had spoken, but he apparently went by the name “Yardbranch”.

“I heard the minotaur-zebra alliance killed her family when they invaded Equestria thirty years ago.” All eyes went to the peg-legged former athlete, Knock-down Tom.

“Well I heard her whole village was razed, and she was the only survivor.” Came Bragging Bill’s reply. He was probably exaggerating again, given his nickname, but some still let out whispers of sympathy at the possible misfortune.

“Such a shame, the poor lady.”

“But what was she doing all the way here? Equestria’s so far!” The young bespectacled Gretta candidly asked.

Broken Row, the unicorn ferry master from the small riverside town in the valley, answered in his usual cryptic way: “Some ponies travel far to escape their memories.”

Somewhere in the upper levels of the city, a clocktower rang the bells signaling noon. A tall, tan griffon split from the crowd and approached the makeshift stage consisting of two wooden crates placed side by side in front of the audience.

Old Sandbeak had been chosen by the small outcast community to give the eulogy, as he had once been a famous writer in his day, before losing it all to his love of gambling. He thus had, among other things, the distinction of being undoubtedly the most eloquent among them. His advanced age also meant he had known the departed one longer than most other souls present.

He stepped on the crates, the mere act silencing the crowd. His gaze swept over them as he gathered his thoughts. He then spoke, his breath punctuating his every word with a puff of mist in the still air. His deep, rumbling voice boomed and echoed throughout the cemetery, solemn and proud.

“My friends, my fellow vagabonds, we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of one we barely knew yet was dear to us all.

“She never spoke her name, saying it wasn’t important, that she wasn’t important. We refused that judgment, and so we came to call her ‘queen’. Our Queen. We gave her that name to show her that we cared, to tell her that, for us at least, she mattered. She was the greatest soul to walk these streets.

“She never cared much for that name. To her, it didn’t mean as much as our smiles, our happiness. When we asked, dumbfounded, how we could possibly repay her deeds, she simply asked us to smile; to fill her heart up with sunshine. And so we did.

“Take a moment today, all of you, to remember the first time you met her. For me, it was a cold winter night, almost as cold as this very day. I was lying in a pile of trash, trying to endure the hangover I had just woken up to. As I huddled in the filth, struggling to warm myself, my closed eyes were confronted by a light. That light slowly moved closer and closer, until I could hear the quiet hoofsteps on the frozen stone in front of me. I opened my eyes, expecting the angry scowl of an officer, but was instead greeted by the soft smile of this complete stranger. I watched her as she put a paper plate on the stone, and left some toast and a small cup of warm coffee for me. As I stared, dumbstruck, rendered speechless by incomprehension, she simply smiled again, pushed the gifts closer to me and trotted away without a word.

“I will never forget the taste of this meal.

“Over the years, I saw her many more times. Time and time again I witnessed her, traveling these streets, seeking us in the dark of night, with that little lantern strapped to her back. She sought us in the depths of our despair, to bring light and warmth to our bodies and hope to our hearts. How many of us were saved from starvation, saved from our dark thoughts by this mare? How many lived through the night only thanks to her presence?

“Her smile eased our pains, her words healed our wounds. For years I pondered why such a saint wasted her time on fools such as us, and I think I know; she loved us. Unconditionally, without reserve or doubt, she loved us.

“And we loved her back. Our mere presence here proves at least that.

“She truly was our Queen, our beacon of hope in the darkness of these streets.

“I once had the privilege of speaking to her, and I asked why. Why she did this, why she was so incredibly generous to us. She simply answered that it was to honor a friend. I was still curious, of course, but when I saw in her blue eyes the obvious pain of her memories, I dared not inquire further.

“I do not know who that friend was, or the circumstances of their separation, but I hope that whomever it was, they are now reunited. That they can meet again at last, forget the painful past, and that our Queen finally finds the peace she brought so many of us.

“Remember her, my friends, remember her deeds and her love, and should you ever find yourself in a better situation, after a stroke of luck or years of labor, remember us. If one day fortune smiles upon you like our Queen smiled upon us all, remember her and give unto the less fortunate as she gave unto you. Remember her legacy.

“So today, let us pray for her peace, for her happiness. Let us pray that wherever she is now, the sky is blue and the winds favorable.

“Let us smile for her, let us thank her the only way she ever wanted.

“Farewell, my Queen! May you find peace at last!”

Sandbeak stepped off the crates as the two diggers moved forward again. As they lowered the Queen to her final rest, he quietly planted a notched stick in the hard dirt next to the headstone. He carefully retrieved from his bag a small tin lantern, dented and worn, the very one that had brought light to so many on countless nights, and hung it at the end of the pole.

He dropped the first shovelful of dirt in the hole, passing the tool to the first digger, who passed it to the second, who passed it on to another, and so on. One by one, the downtrodden subjects lined up to bury their Queen, until the earth had swallowed her completely.

As the crowd dispersed, Sandbeak remained next to the tomb, reading the epitaph again.

Above the words, as was pony custom, her cutie mark had been carved. He traced its outlines with his claw, gently.

As the last mourners left the graveyard, he took out a single match and used it to light the lamp, and then left.

The lantern burned late into the night, shedding its light on the headstone and its three carved butterflies, making them flicker and dance, letting them flutter in the bright moonlight of the night sky.