Although the history of citrine is waived in the history of the topaz it so coincides that at one point long ago, back in Madeira, were its cradle lies, a young Bavarian princess, married to an Austrian Emperor, known by the name of Sissi, chose no other stone for her fragile health but the citrine. There is no written historic evidence, and you will not find it in the guide to Schohnbrunn, but whilst lying in her bed, which had been placed in the wonderful garden to melt in every single ray of sun, her eye was blinded by a shimmer shy rising under the pebble. She thought her eyes and mind were playing tricks, as it had on so many occasions before, for her heart was tired, her body exhausted, and her lungs grew tighter and tighter by the day. There in the coldness of the Atlantic ocean, where all of her hopes lay she was given a new treatment every day each more disturbing than the last until she decided to let go. To let go of life, of her responsibility to her Emperor, to her children, which she missed even more then the breath in her chest.
At the same time with her decision came the dazzle, not from the sun, nor from the expensive jewellery she was wearing. The dazzle was unique, a light she had never seen before but so tiny she was afraid it would be lost in a blink.
Slowly she rose, and in a tremble, she set one foot in front of the other to come near the almost invisible spark, glowing as if a fairy were dying for children had stopped believing in fairies. The closer she came the more certain she was of what she was searching. She could not speak of it, not name it, but sensed this to be either her end or he rebirth. Finally she freed the spark from the surrounding grey pebbles. The spark tuned into a radiant crystal and took no offense to have been disturbed from its calmness. The yellow stone was warm to the touch as if it had captured the sun itself. She never let go of the warmth of the stone nor did she cease to admire its beauty. She thanked the citrine and over not knowing why. Each day she became stronger, with each morning sunrise, and she never parted with her stone. Neither will you, once you choose or are chosen by your citrine.
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