Like shared conspirators in the mist and woods, she told of all the weary tides she’d seen (how many times, she wondered, how she been more fatigued and drained than elated and ebullient), and he still grasped and grabbed for more. Each memory was a fallen petal, coasting and ghosting across the horizon, never forgotten, but tarnished, crumpled, woven entanglements of a yesteryear she was forced to recall – and now, the vision of the battlefield, the pieces and pawns, the runes and rooks, of all their ferocious blades, of all their esteemed harbingers, formulated, came to place in her eyes. Beyond her sight lay the ruins of their cliffs and waves breaking over worn rocks, shambles of shoal and desolation, beauty and grandeur, and she focused upon the query, saw the violent contortions of their hallowed, hollowed machinations. A dragon mare, mythical and damning, leading her clan of wandering, wayfaring souls, at once gilded and breathing fire, and in some moments, an ebony banner, leading her warriors to victory and conquest over their icicle sovereign and fellow patriots. Her composure became fit for the occasion, relaxed, poised for more stories as they flowed over her lips, like laureate dreams and whimsical sonnets, nightmares of the past returning to fruition in the depths of a crooning bird. “Sometimes she resembles a golden dragon, and other times, a black mare.” She smiled, awaited the imminent confusion between the two – for what if he wasn’t familiar with magic, not illuminated by enchantments (did he realize the invocations of her own deliverance and attributes?). The sylph continued to hum beneath the opulence of the icy empire, and Imogen persisted in the same stead, twirling to each burdening song lifted from warm spirits and harsh recollections, conjuring more spells to answer constant queries. “The Dragon’s Throat, their allies, assisted in the invasion.” We stood no chance - numbers strangled their efforts, their fortitudes, and still they waged on, fires and embers coiling along dancing flames, desperate for a kingdom they couldn’t salvage.

The last question perhaps sieged and smoldered the most, because she no longer knew his whereabouts, his aspirations, lost and follied to the arched damnations of time and the unknown, more labyrinthine sentiments spiraling down rabbit holes. All the undying loyalties, all the enduring allegiance and adherence, could mean nothing without the presence of the one faithfulness stitched its seams upon. He’d led them amongst winter, around defeat, amongst rancor, through mirrors and reflections, through warfare and assaults, and now, he barely whispered amongst the tangled armaments of confusion and turmoil. Her eyes fell to the ground, her voice lowered to a saddened, somber tune, and she relinquished the name of their former monarch, as if the drumming of his name may herald him back, may warrant him to haunt their wings once more (and if she summoned his calling across her mouth, could she do the same for all the others disappeared into the abyss?) “We were led by Mauja the Frostheart.”