Life Needs More Than Magic Alone

The filly frequently grew flowers or grass in her sleep, and it had become a cherished game to see what she'd grown upon waking. Papa said she would only be able to grow what seeds already lay dormant in the soil but that there were hundreds of kinds of seeds around this glen and he could see no pattern in which ones she revived on any particular day. Misha had a theory about that- they were tied to her dreams. Nightmares caused her to grow burrs and pricklegrass. This night she'd dreamed a lovely, delicate, dainty dream and, if her theory was correct, she would have grown something lovely, delicate and dainty.

Her theory bore out, at least this time. Tiny white wood anenome lined her nest this morning, glowing with dew in the morning sunlight. Misha whinneyed in delight and touched them one by one with her pink nose. 

That brought to mind past days' waking surprises. Because she tended to leave plants behind after sleeping, Misha had to choose a new sleeping spot in the glade each night. This was no problem of course; the glade was beautifully kept and there was always some soft spot to be found within sight of Mama and Papa. 

The day before she had dreamt of a fox, swift and cruel. Though she knew logically she was too large now for a fox to cause her harm, in the dream he was huge and she was helpless. Misha had woken with the dream-image of her own dark blood staining the snow still in her eyes. She had awoken surrounded by a blood-colored thistle. She'd never before grown a woody plant before, even a low one such as this, and had woken feeling as tired as she had when she'd gone to sleep the night before.

A few days before that she'd had another lovely dream. She couldn't remember much of it but she was happy and safe and had awoken to delicate bluebells under her chin. The memory of it brought a smile to Misha's face and she ran over to check on the bluebells.

But the bluebells were gone. Stiff black broken stalks stood in their place and the tender blooms were nothing but a memory.

This was deeply upsetting to Misha. What had happened? They'd been so beautiful. Why did they die? Her distressed bleating brought her father running and she tearfully asked him to explain.

"Oh Misha," he breathed. "Bluebells are summer plants. We can use our magic to call them up in winter, but they aren't meant to live in the cold. If they don't have the warmth of the sun and the water of the rain they will wither away. Magic can only do such much- you have to continue to care for them after you bring them into this world if you want them to thrive."

Misha considered that as she sniffled. She hadn't thought about what would happen to the plants her magic called into the world when her magic left them. She created them and then unthinkingly abandoned them to die. 

The freckled filly vowed to never again be so thoughtless. If she brought these flowers to the world then they were her responsibility and she would make sure their needs were met. She would be a proper gardener.