Look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under it.

The world turns and twists in a series of revolutions, from the benevolent sonnets of whimsical bards, the weary, tired ramblings of a war-torn soldier, the wicked decadence of a scathing, Machiavellian balladeer, to the insurgent schemes of a specious, forbidding villain. Irony distorted, becoming another reeling motion in the sanguine sides of recovery and convalescence – for just when the breath of relief had settled into their veins, a ghostly, wraithlike snare had entangled its fingers into their roots. How much more are we doomed to endure? How many times shall we be teased by salvation, only to have it ripped from our hands? Beneath the divine heavens and above the nefarious threshold, the specter yearned, coveted, and stole, inveigling cords wrapped around a precious child. Taken: from shelter, from safety, from love. How does one feel when everything they’ve had is threatened and withdrawn, extracted from their hearts? How does a child lament when their cherished, beloved sanctuary is discarded, when their palisade is cracked, ruined, and mayhem, crawling into their sights, set nothing against the horizon but the blemish of a depraved promise and sullied conviction? How does a herd recover from a consuming loss, from the bewildering erosion of a revered creature? Ah, but she knew the answer to that muddled query.

They unite.

She came with the moving beasts, the aching wrath that presaged with a consuming, fortuitous throng, dissolving and reawakening with each step, linked and fused by a common, overwhelming force of guilt, remorse, and vexation. She truly didn’t know what to feel – a spurned edge towards another party for absconding a token that wasn’t theirs? Regret for not being able to cease the horrific transaction? Sadness for the child that couldn’t fight back, for the weariness and grief of the father? So Lena is quieted by the alterations, a hushed radiance that doesn’t dare to bloom in these muted segments, where thoughts cannot be expressed for fear of losing control, where the searing, seething dread of what could culminate awakens, beating against a once steady heart. Her movements are soft, silken webs overshadowed and swallowed by fellow, swarming creatures; motions are not tremulous, echoing paces that seek to intimidate or terrorize, but petal contortions, refined, diplomatic junctures aimed at support, comfort, consolation and solace. Others offered power, absolution, she provided finesse, discretion. Drawn against stalwart companions, she remained resolute, persevering and tenacious, cranium raised against the distortions of the haven, witnessing, watching each fluid moment. The Pegasus leader, the scion, and their leader, the cool, cold poignancy that resonates without mellifluous candor, spun into hisses and silence. She drew her body behind the monarch and frothing monster, but mustered her stare, warmed only to the individual, upon Snö, if only to extend a reassuring whim in the perils of anarchy. You’ll be safe soon.