I'm so sorry I've taken so long on this chapter, I just got stuck. I had an idea for a new fanfic but I don't want to have more ongoing ones than I already do, because I know I'll get even less work done on them.

Punky Print's Log: Day 230

Inky and I have all of our things packed up, and this morning I traveled to Mystic's house to tell him that I couldn't help him with his potions today.

"Why not?"

"Inky and I have to ask around to see if anypony will let us stay with them for a few nights." He turned away from the book he had been reading.

"What happened to your house?"

"Coco and her family live there now. They have another foal on the way, so they can't travel from house to house like we can." He nodded.

"Ah. You can stay here if you'd like. I have extra hammocks." My eyes widened, and as Mystic read his book I leapt into the air happily.

"Thank you! I'll tell Inky!" I rushed out of his house and hugged Inky, who had been waiting patiently outside. "We can stay with my mentor!"

"Alright, but are you sure he won't mind?" I nodded, and the two of us went back into his house. As we entered, I saw Mystic in the same place that I'd left him, his back turned to the door as he sat engrossed in his book. Inky stood awkwardly in the doorway, and when I had already set down my saddlebag and hung up my cloak, I noticed her discomfort.

"Are you alright, Inky?"

"Uh, yeah," she said, looking suspiciously at Mystic as she whispered. "It's just that, well, he hasn't said anything. Are you sure it's alright if we stay here?"

"Yes." Inky jumped when she heard Mystic speak. He hadn't turned away from his book or shown any sign of hearing her speak, and I chuckled at my mentor's surprisingly distant personality. Undoubtedly, it will take a while for Inky to get used to it. "It's fine."

Inky and I set up the spare hammocks and then Inky quickly left. Probably to visit another home in order to read the journals stashed inside. She spent several days at Bookworm's home, apparently even without any of the old journals the librarian pony still possessed a large collection of books, but even her library room couldn't remain unread for long, and so Inky moved on to the old accounts of our new hometown.

"Mystic, I offered to make the dreamlessness potion for another unicorn yesterday, if you don't mind I'd like to try making this one on my own."

"Very well," he said, pride in his voice. "When will this unicorn be coming for his brew?" I smacked my forehead with my hoof.

"I don't think I told him to come for it here. I know where he lives though, so maybe I could go deliver it?"

"Alright." He looked up from his book. "Perhaps you could do deliveries of other things as well," he thought aloud. I smiled, then began working on uncorking and catching the right ingredients. Once I was done, I put on my cloak and tucked the bottle into one of the hidden pockets. When I knocked on the door of the stallion's home, he opened it with bleary eyes, each slow motion sapping his energy as if he was moving underwater.

"Thank you." I nodded.

"I hope it helps you," I said gently, the memory of his dead daughter being dragged away still fresh in my mind. He nodded and gave me a sack of food as payment before closing the door. I picked up the bag and placed it across my back. I'm not very strong, but I knew that I could carry the bag back to the cliff side on my own.

The grieving unicorn's house is exactly as far away from Mystic's house as it is from the picture of Brassheart. I feel like that's an important detail to mention. Another one is that, before opening a door, before walking to a destination, I always turn to look at that picture. Even if it's only a decorated blot of color against the wall, or impossible to see past rows of houses, I habitually turn my head in the direction of the portrait. I don't know why I do it, maybe I'm torturing myself, the guilt triggered by looking at my dead protector carving through all other thoughts and feelings to the point that it's almost crippling.

I miss him so much.

Usually when I look at the painting there are, at most, two ponies there. But most of the time, there's nopony. When I looked then, however, a guard sat in their full golden armor in front of the painting, silent and still. I walked up to the guard, and my heart suddenly felt too small, like the more it pumped the more constricted it became. I felt like crying, the blue eyes in the painting matched the ones staring back and the brown coat of the pegasus was only a shade redder than the coat of paint that made up Brassheart's body. I sat down by the guard as he took off his helmet, glad that the hood of my cloak was covering the panic on my face if he looked over. His mane was longer and darker than the painting's, hanging down near his eyes.

Thousands of thoughts beat at one another in my mind, pounding against one another for control of my actions. Guilt and sorrow and fear stopped me from speaking as I stared at him. He didn't seem to notice me, or my panic. The guard was focused only on the portrait as I scrambled for something to say. An apology, a plea for forgiveness, I desperately needed to say almost anything; I just needed him to know that I was there, that I could have done something, and that I had failed spectacularly.

"I pictured you shorter."

AN: Again, so sorry this took so long. Also, I'm sorry it's so short! I hope you'll all continue to enjoy and review this, even though I took five-ever to update it.