The moon-coloured mare wakes in bright sunlight, and finds that she is alone. The field is brilliant and bright as always, green and colourful, and she rises with the fairy’s words still in the back of her mind - but as she scans the field she realizes the red blooms are wilted, and there is no sign of white, orange, pink or yellow - unless she counts the wilted red flowers that had cause her sleep.

While the cornflowers, the only ones still standing, are pretty, those are not the colours she had been asked to bring. Still the winged mare searches her surroundings, determined to bring something - but when she finally finds a white flower, that too is wilted, and she knows that she is simply too late.

She’d slept too long, much longer than the others.

Ilma is not frustrated, like many younger horses before her. She is disappointed, and knows that perhaps her hasty landing in the field of red flowers had caused her to inhale more pollen that the others. She notices their scent traces, and places where they slept, walked, and eventually ran off to.

But she has to face it, the spring blooms are all gone, and still asleep, she simply couldn’t have made it in time.

With a sigh, she turns her heels, and against all hope wings herself to the Mountain - she wants to know if the others at least, have succeeded. At least then she might be able to go home knowing that she had at least, tried.