Once, there was a fence. See, right there, where the ground dips? The firmer stones, arranged in a line, that must have held fenceposts? Grass plays along it, grows greener where the remains have fallen, decomposed, and become more fertile soil. And that patch of mossy cobble--so unusual in its straightness--can only have been a shed of some sort. She almost expects a figure to emerge, pick up a rake or a trowel, and continue to care for its orchard.

Because that's what this is. This is no random group of trees, run wild where the seeds first fell. This is a place of care, of nurture, and she would dearly love to know what drove its first planters away. Were they humans, scooped up in Nero's galaxy-wide collection? Servitors, tending it on behalf of their masters? Did something happen to them that would mark this as a place of danger? Should she be concerned for those around her?

It would be a terrible thing to be caught unawares on a strange planet. But as she picks her way along the fenceline, admiring the trees, she can't convince herself they're in danger. And surely...

Well, surely the Alcedi must be able to spot the danger better than she can? The Princess is well-guarded. There is no threat here. Surely, [i]surely,[/i] she must be able to...

Well, to take some time for herself?

Finally, she finds the spot where two fenceposts must have been closer together. And the grass here bursts from between small stones, the remains of a path. Yes, this must have been the entrance.

She debates whether she ought to follow the path back the other way. It must lead [i]somewhere,[/i] certainly? A farmhouse, perhaps? A ruined city? Or perhaps this simply fell into ruin because other orchards, more prosperous ones, are in use?

The thought brings a twinge to her chest. That this could be abandoned--such a lovely spot! How the reflections from the debris play across the leaves, paint them in shades of orange and purple, cast bands of blues and yellows through the grass--the thought brings a twinge through her chest.

Right.

Carefully, gingerly, she takes off her shoes. Places them outside the gate. Folds the long outer clothing neatly, brushes off a patch of dew-soaked grass, places the bundle next to her shoes. Lowers the Aegis and spear to the ground, neatly, carefully. 

And then, facing the orchard, she bows deeply. 

It is her privilege to be here, in this place, at this time, enjoying the fruits of those who so dearly cared for it. It's in disrepair now, but this was once a place of love. And now that she's here, she intends to make it one again.