Change was an inevitable barrage – she’d embraced it once, in the woods, beneath the boughs, the warmth, the grandeur and solace of another time, another place. Now, she was afraid, frightened, of the abyss she’d sunk into, and ventured, wandered, for the strings of unattainable answers. She sought the snow, the Steppe, to cleanse her soul, wash away the agony, the pain, the distortions and anguish layered and lacquered to the grimy entity she now contained. Fixating, chilling, cool and forgiving, crushing and extinguishing the blighted circumstances into attainable truths; she’d saved her brethren from monsters and demons, she’d attempted to extricate beings, children and mothers, from a world holding them chained, locked, imprisoned. Sometimes the wires, strands, lace and ribbons of her footfalls, of her composure, of all of her trials and tribulations plaited together and wove a knot in her heart, threatened to ignite, to explode, to diminish all the whimsies and fancies she’d collected. Soft petals, rough pebbles, bright, effervescent fronds and blades, crooning gales and bubbling, mirthful whispers, christened and anointed, as if they were to never be seen again. How long had it been since she laughed, since she giggled, since she smiled and grinned, danced beneath the celestial whirlwinds and glanced forward, determined, stalwart, and brave for the future? Where had her resolution faded – in the beckoning of cannons, in the prowess of soldiers, in the haunting, poignancy of deadened emotions and crushing, gnarled apathy, leaving her essence barren, sullied and stained, just as damned as the rest. Divinity seemed only surface level, scarred and damaged, blemished and caught in the ruffian parallels of twisting, turning, anarchy and chaos, where hope and virtue seemed eager to die, wither and decay, fermenting on the sienna figurine, neither nymph, nor sylph; angelic qualities washed away into tombs, battle cries and violent symphonies. Blades too sharp, too punctured, too serrated, like elongated, piercing rapiers, had pierced deep into the rhythm of her songs, of her warbles, trills and chirps, silencing the arias, the ditties, the strains into hushed, sketched, traced tranquility.

Imogen followed close by, outlined the footfalls of her beloved with dulcet pathways, forlorn, despondent, vexed and irritated. She neither waltzed nor pranced, merely watched as the songbird, choked, strangled, muted, continued on the tundra grounds, weaving naught out of melancholy and self-loathing. The ivory kitsune paused once, twice, attempted to gain bearings across the void, a different outlook, but couldn’t find anything but the steady walls of the frozen expanse to occupy Lena’s mind, to restore and repair, rejuvenate and recompose the lost, shriveled diligence, the echoing chasms of joy and delight, rapture and reverie. Then, the sight of another traveled beyond her blue gaze, laughing in the wasteland, twirling in the wilderness (wasn’t that what the Nurse did – exotic, regal, noble, pulled into the repose and grandeur of the world – could this one teach her to embrace that again?). She chirped in riotous clarity, crooned in eager resolution, strengthened by the need, the drive, to fix the remnants of her companion. Another, Lena!

The silent connection prospered – honeyed convictions and aspirations blended into the wholesome length of the Nurse’s eyes, and the two creatures roamed, searched, peeked and lingered, watched for a few moments as the other seemed to occupy themselves, bounding, leaping, chasing down old dreams and aspirations. Intrigued by the jubilance, because she wanted to experience it again, the drifting, brilliant feeling of coquette waltzes and ambient elegance, she advanced, then noted the scent ghosting into her nares: World’s Edge. Bravery snatched and stolen in a few moments, resorting to patched threads and snarled munitions, until she was a lost girl again, resorting to hiding in thickets, gullies and copses. Imogen nearly rolled her eyes (the Lena she once knew would have danced, not shirked, embraced, not concealed), but instead, rekindled their soothing connection. Amends, perhaps? Would that save things? Would that bring her back from the deadened livelihood she now claimed, nomadic, Romani, constantly trying to appease her worn virtues?

So Lena tried her hand at restoration again, swallowed her blemished sentiments, pushed them into the brink of desolation, scarred and brutal, and beckoned with song to the stranger beyond. “Hello!”