“Sometimes the more foolish the action, the more impressive the result.” Her words slipped out from beyond the moors drenched in old blood, from the morasses and warrens tangled in the deep concaves of enigmatic twists and turns, from the high-rising peaks and imminent valleys that crushed or embraced. How many moments could have been strangled, smothered, unbidden and remorseful, without their disregard for safety, without their burdening need for sanctuary, without their audacious, bold valor shrouding the world in its anarchy? Would the monsters have won, smashing, unraveling, massacring and devouring the masses, had their swords and shields not vanquished the enemy with their imprudent gestures, their wild, chaotic gathering? Or did her vocals, her musing, play true to more recent occasions, as one by one, the earnest, the stalwart, the staunch, fell to the abyss and labyrinth on the Edge? Potential for ruin, for absolution, destroyed and devastated in the crumbling apertures, in the colliding oubliettes, in the earthy dungeons of mist and prologue, souls still left wilting in the dust and soil. The seraph attempted to push beyond the boundaries of their failures, of the coiled machinations sundered and untangled, of webs catching their nimble footsteps, of shadows plaguing and rasping against their senses, of her selfish acts nearly fettering away the mellifluous tints of her soul, the harmonious lilt of her spirit. She’d seen the capacity, the mastery, of her wickedness, of her savagery, of her barbarity and wrath, and had no urge to revisit it. Instead, the songbird clung to the notion of distraction, to dance in the cavalcades of serenity, to restore repose, to rejuvenate and revitalize the icicle altars and glacial pedestals. To slide sonnets into sinister invocations, to compose absolution in callous condemnation, to rewrite the ebb and flow of her faults and flaws, to caress their foibles, their errs, combine the length of her composure into steadier strengths.

The fairy tilted her crown to study the youth further, a lad of a different world, a different language – she found her ears, her mind, captivated and entranced by the cadence and intonation of his voice, a unique, ethereal blend of phrases she’d never heard. Perhaps the inflection and pulse was beyond her comprehension, lofty, superior, to the stanzas and lyrics she’d ever orchestrated. Imogen followed suit in a parade of chirps and twitters, prancing lightly towards this Carnesîr, with all his beauty, all his knowledge, combined into a soul seeking so many things, dabbling close to his hooves, then skirting back in an ebullient display of former daring and mettle. Lena’s smile, unfailing, eternally blazing and luminescent, continued to elegantly confine her sorrows, her melancholies, tracing lightly into the scope of the singsong air. Her melodies and harmonies followed suit, expressing her curiosity, her desire for understanding and cognition, grasping amiability with the members of her world, her kingdom, the empire that delivered heartache and refuge in so many sweeping, chilling gestures. “A pleasure, Carnesîr. What do you do for the Basin?” She paused for a moment, reflected on all the passions she encompassed for the icy pinnacles, the unwavering fortitudes, and if it was ever enough. “I’m a Nurse.” The nymph stated naught about the sieges, the assaults, she’d helped incite, incise, lacerate and condemn, the burning feeling of regret, remorse, for being incapable of doing anymore, and the odd, rueful sentiments after each accomplishment, as if she lost a bit of herself to cruelty, to disregard, to ignorance and shackles.