The nymph’s heart was full of secrets, brimming, adverse weeds, sprouts and saplings twisting and turning for daylight, seeking absolution for each wicked stem, for every satin, dewy petal, for the bloom, the blossoming, of their strife and anguish. They never tumbled from her mouth, never pierced the broken chords of light, never shattered or transpired into the air, stored and locked away into the shambled collection of her wonder, of her enigma, of her ethereal bliss and composure. So many others climbed a vast collection, a wandering paradise of runes, specious mysteries and enshrined fortifications, and because she shared slivers and fragments of past armaments, of clandestine cloaks and daggers, of reveries splintered and wayfaring, of ghosts and wraiths and clattering, webbed invocations, she queried for little. She worried, pondered and gathered to assuage, to soothe, to mend, but not to pry, not to shame, not to humiliate, caressing with amiable strands, stroking with affable melodies and tender embraces of generosity and beneficence. If this meant that she’d be forgotten in their world of debauchery, treachery and danger, that she’d be cast aside in the weary trenches and gallows, if her soul, her memory, became lost to the trenchant eaves and the scarring corridors, then perhaps, her gifts, her bestowals and offerings would be remembered in the icy apertures, in the glacial walls, in the high-rising peaks. Lena gave benevolent, refined pieces of her essence, woven threads of her grandeur, opulence, dedication and musing, to the earth she strode on; impassioned dances to Thresholds, crooning decibels to heal and nurture the despairing, ardent, awakening hope in the forlorn and desolate. If she was not to be recalled in the future, then perhaps her nameless fixture would be a solidified accompaniment to the stars, to the constellations, to the rime and icicles, fervor, ardor, vigor, enthusiasm and ebullience. Maybe her hymns and hums would alight to the wavering bird songs, exist in their sonnets, in their stanzas and lyrics, blend into their harpsichord raptures and fly gallantly into the winds’ ruffian, stalwart pursuits, pixie, jovial, fairy whims and fey capriciousness. Or, she too, like so many others, could falter to the loam as mere dust and decay, another passing spirit embarking on a journey to heaven’s end, disregarded, giving naught but the incredulous distinction of faltering, flickering aspirations and ambitions.

The youth stated he was a Scholar, gifted with the realm of knowledge, with seeking out the rim of the sovereignty, with blessing the atmosphere with his predilections and predictions, piecing together the ghosts of their past and the legends of their future. The sylph’s eyes, honeyed, saccharine, ambrosial, wavered upon his gaze, wondered about the fortitude of his skill, of his talents, if he can bravely traverse over the unknown, if the pain yielding in his stare, the strange anguish, torment and misery colliding over the length of his features should cause her to query, to assuage, to soothe. Who does he fear for? Himself? Their brethren, the locked away souls seeking absolution in the rotting decadence of war? For her, a creature stoked and ignited for her kin, despite every nuance, every serene, tranquil portion of her being driving her to cease, to desist, so she didn’t become another savage face, another nefarious creature, another emboldened, audacious fiend? Her smile faded, replaced by the incorporeal line of lost fixtures and diabolical mayhem, calm, unruffled, unperturbed, but upon the inside, clamoring for a way out, for a discussion and discourse beyond the measure of these insightful means. She held no desire to relive her faults and flaws, no puncturing, wild deliberation to hark back the brutal charges, the satanic deeds, the fumbling maelstroms, resulting in nothing, nothing, nothing. No brethren returned, no triumph claimed, and only the clattering barbarity of her treachery, of her capacity for violence, threatening to overwhelm the essence, the form, she’d worked so hard to achieve. For a moment, she flinched and looked away, incapable of glancing at his wayward soul, of his grasping, toying words, at his notion of seeking answers from her. Would he ask what she’d done, or would he allow her to escape, so she wouldn’t have to face the untamed portions of her pierced soul? She only inclined her words to the mountains, dabbled them in the truth, in the veracity and verity of their efforts, of why she’d clambered into her former home and punctured the misty edges, stole mellifluous chimes from the wind to disguise her wounded spirit. “The World’s Edge stole some of our children and their mother.” She remembered their names, Sacre, Roux, Azucar, and some, their faces, Kou, ivory, strong, and dedicated, christened and blessed their heralds even if she could not see or trace their existence. A weak smile blossomed across her lips as she wavered for a moment, touched her eyes upon his terror and forlorn heart, conveyed the despondent answer to their failed campaigns. “We were unsuccessful in getting them back.”