Once upon a time, at the Beginning of the Things, there was a woman living on the mountain that stands above the world. We don’t know if she had been there before the glaciers or if she came with them, or even if she was born by them, but in any case she was there after their melting, a lonely queen with big eyes and elegant hands, dressed in long white hair and in a skin (or something like a skin) pale and colorless. Those very old times Olympus (the mountain above the world) was bleak and its only resident, the woman, had no companion: the well-known Olympian Gods with those famous love affairs and conspiracies of theirs would settle a lot of centuries later. So the woman lived alone on the top, having as an alternative only her secret cave for dwelling whenever she felt like.
In the meantime down on earth and around the mountain foot there was the Blue Valley, a land rich with fresh water but surrounded by an impenetrable veil that hid any possible passage to either the plain later named Thessaly or the nearby sea all this land had once emerged from. Unlike Olympus, the Blue Valley was not bleak: groups of centaurs, proud independent pegasuses and a few charming unicorns lived there together and had a lot of pleasure, running free (up to the impenetrable veil) and playing with each other all the time, while the woman should stay up in the clouds guarding her secret cave and waiting for her centuries to come.
Indeed as time went by the inhabitants of the valley got fewer and fewer, being eaten by Chronos, the Time Spirit, until finally all perished except for a pair of centaurs and one weak, ill unicorn, the last unicorn on earth. However the centaurs too (a boy with wide chest, curly hair and a rich tail and a girl with handsome round breasts, long hair usually formed in a braid and a flower-decorated tail) after lurking for something for a while vanished mysteriously one night thus leaving the unicorn all alone.
Then that beauty of an animal, whose body was an opalescent masterpiece glowing with colors and his velvet-eyed face the icon of purity ornamented with a crystal clear, water-like mane and a spiraled horn once strong and sharp like a stalactite (but now struck by the disease), raised his proud head and took a big decision: with any power left he started climbing the steep slope and after a long, agonized journey on the edge of the wild, rimed gorges arrived panting, the moment his horn was falling from his wounded forehead, at the celestial kingdom of the woman. She hugged the mutilated with all that precious warmth hidden in lonely beings, took him into her cave and washed and bandaged his wound. Then she knew her centuries had come.
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