Hope was a beautiful harmony, blessed and consecrated, a heated, fashioned rhapsody unfettered, unwavering, persevering in the darkest halls or lamentable doldrums. She’d have waited a thousand years in the refuge, in the haven, for the notion they’d one day be released from forced deliverance, granted and given true liberation in the form of icicle walls, arctic whims, and Siberian foibles. Home cast a lively tune in the decibels of her compassionate heart, nestled, crooned, and hummed in the fathoms of her chest, of her blood, of her soul. She’d yearned for the endless peaks, for the unyielding summits, for the deep, constant valleys, for the chilling winds and rapture, reverie, of ice, rime, frost, snowflakes resting, melting, drifting, ambient, listless, languid. The sanctuary had been a hallowed, sanctified endeavor from the Gods, christening safety from the fluid shadows preying and clawing, rasping and grating, but it would never carry the pedestal, the candle, the auroras, the Basin held over her seraphic mind. Desperate and starved for the touch, the caress, the stroke of feral breezes and ferocious allures, she followed the wake of time and relished sparks, the lord and lady leading their way to fruition, finality, pieces and snippets left waiting and wanton. If the faulty ire, if the clawing wraiths, if the bestial specters and barbaric wraiths had left their kingdom broken, the nymph promised to help mold it back together, carry piece by piece, stone by stone, rubble by rubble, back into their ordained, beatified depths, until it was whole again. No damnation, no extermination, no pestilence could hold back the might, the swing, of their power, of their perseverance, of their unwillingness to concede their swords, their rapiers, their wit, their schemes, their love and devotion towards the ice-laden pinnacles. Stars, constellations and borealis interludes lit her spirit and fueled her strides, her movements, her motions, and the smile, the grin, sculpted into her lips, enlightened, stroked mellifluous chords, aspirations and confidence; if they could sink into the bowels of the earth, then they could carve, chisel, and rise again.

Their arrival hastened her reverence again – she stared into the beauty, the splendor, the opulence, and nearly wept for the untouched world. Stones unmoved by time, by hours, by minutes, by phantoms and poltergeists, by curses and spells, placed in the same fortitude, a fortress for kings, queens, brethren and icy spirits. In awe, in disbelief, her jaw dropped as her gaze fixated upon caves in the distance, of a lake still stalwart and valorous against the scythe of winter, of hot springs bubbling and coiling their ardent steam, promises and assurances. She displayed her acclaim, her admiration, her appreciation for the wondrous palace with a dip of her head so low she kissed the snow and pressed her sword into the rime, felt the touch, the sizzle, the cold sink into her skin, refresh, invigorate, renew what was lost in the chambers of shelter. Imogen played the same part, measured her chirps into wild, frenetic, zealous hums, brilliant and bright, passionate and ardent against the sculpted glaciers, echoing her companion’s ebullience, happiness, and elation. Thankful for the essence, the reality, the nature of their journey, the pair grew silent in respect and esteem, listened to the candor of their friends rejoicing, the din of celebration. Only when their rulers began speaking did she draw herself from the ecstasy, from the pathways she’d crossed and could now waltz upon again, for the dances she envisioned along frigid, wintry boughs, for the speculations and spells, for the enchantments, songs, and invocations she yearned to spring from her lips.

Compliments and felicitations were to be offered towards many of her friends, for one by one, they were crowned and hallowed with distinction. Her pride swelled and her grin lifted, turning her honeyed, ambrosia gaze towards the creatures mentioned, distinct, honored, earning their newfound glory. To Deodat, the stately, the dignified, the formidable and determined, to Farenjer, the gifted crafter hiding his wares in caves, blessed for his capabilities. When her own name rang amongst the gathered, however, she paused in her own rapture, stunned, befuddled, surprised and shocked. Her brow nettled into a series of emotions, furrowed and jolted, astonished and bewildered, until Imogen pressed into their shared convictions and laughed. Take it! Be proud! Dignity and honor were molded containers of her vessel, but never an outward relish of her appeal, and she wasn’t sure what to do, how to react, except with obvious confusion, a widening of her eyes, and the fixture of her constant grin. So she accepted, caressed the title, and wondered how she’d ever fill the hoof prints left by the former, good Doctor. Her voice, a sudden quake, a cherubic aria, only expressed the indebted, obliged utterances of a sylph raised to new heights, unsure of where she fit in the slate, but dedicated, consecrated, to every measure of their sovereignty, bowing to the endeavors of the Basin and all of its mighty constituents. “Thank you. I will gladly accept the role.” Thereafter, she raised an immediate toast, a bright, unhindered enthusiasm, for her fellows marked and labeled into the stead of their heroics, of their efforts. “Congratulations everyone!”