Blossomed, blooming hearts laid claim to primrose thickets, untamed copses, and the quiet, hushed impression of time’s steady, swift beat – her eyes remained transfixed, riveted, to the grandeur of god’s hands. Spread before her vivid, bright, honeysuckle stare were the remnants of stretched hours and minuets, recaptured, poured, bottled, then exposed to the winter midst and spring sonnets, ripened by her own convictions. How deep could they run? Was it stronger than her adversaries’ trumpets, stronger than their enemy combatants, stronger than the lives doomed to rush towards theirs? How many could she save from the clambering of demonic quandaries? How many could she liberate, deliver, rescue from the plains of demise? How potent was its layers and lacquer, and how long until she could balance it within her soul, nurture, grow, alongside its ramparts and fortifications? Would it thrive on her creeds, on her perseverance, on her benedictions and sentiments, the certainty of her heart and soul, or simply spring from the voids of absent bellows, the hollowed portions of the world’s extinguished breaths? The first trial lapsed into her legs, bent and tugged, swayed and swindled at her vigor, nearly beckoning for her eyes to close, lulled by rapacious lullabies and gilded epiphanies, swooning, varnished tribulations. Sun stroked and repose kissed, her essence, her kindness, her rapture, her benevolence, tied deeply into the rivets, alleys, and melting snow, and she thought of a poet’s nap, joined together by warm rays and idle serenity, would have fallen into its loose snare had the beckoning of another’s voice not crashed into the height of her arched reverie. Imogen chirped in a feverish pitch, and Lena swiveled her cranium to glance towards the advancing beast – not a stranger at all, but a monster transformed, friend of shadows and saints. Her eyes widened without rancor, without bitterness, without ferocity or unrelenting poison, kindled and poised with the grandest of opulent beneficence, ebullient despite her body’s withering finesse. She recalled him at the meeting, bestial and turbulent, another victim of the monstrous shades, harsh pestilence, corrupting and overcoming so many of the etched individuals, but now, naught of his former venom and vitriol seemed to harpoon and lace the world with its scorn, with its barbs. No claws, no foam, no scythes, no banners of the damned marked his brow, his motions, his clear, strong form.

In fact, he was nearly all warmth, tenderness, generosity and affection, capturing, charming and enticing her quickly into the soft, dulcet clamor of her own ethereal bestowals. Like a sunken sylph, a dainty, delicate fairy, a fey of the woods and time’s elusive, possessive sketches, she became enamored with his grace, the regality, the shine and sheen of his illustrious motions. Imogen, still in place upon her stony pedestal, even attempted to imitate his grand gestures and bows, but nearly fell off her rock throne when her foreleg reached too far over the edge (and prayed no one else saw the debacle). Captivated, the nymph extended her own noble brow, head tucked towards sienna chest, lids floating graciously over dewy cheeks, smile broadened and floating along the brim of her whimsical lips. “Good morning, Zikar-Sin. You’re quite welcome. I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.” Her vocals, crisp, clean, and composed, floated neatly in waves of satin and silk, light and polished, continuing to provide her declarations and niceties warranted towards a newfound confidante. “I’m Lena.” The kitsune uttered another chirrup, as though dismayed that she’d perhaps been forgotten, and the femme bit back a laugh. “My companion is Imogen.”

The aforementioned vixen immediately perked up and off the pebbled monument at the sound of another’s approach, causing an additional deviation of attention from the Time Mender. Perhaps they were being rewarded for their harmonic efforts, their sanguine serenities, for no sooner had Imogen chased after the decibels and danced near a stranger’s long limbs, did Roland appear – fresh and golden, jovial and amiable; joining the realm of affable clarity and petal-soft intrigue. Though Lena couldn’t perceive why they were being honored with so many beloved patriots and comrades, she wouldn’t dissuade or force the ruminations away: releasing her grin once more, bestowed and glowing, radiant and luminous for the guard who’d released her from a nightingale’s cage. A sprite’s swift aria sprung from her mouth, wild, ambient tunes, dabbling through the haze and misty abyss. “Roland!” She almost twirled towards his frame, a dancer’s curling, whirling ribbon, before her frame reminded her of tired, languid delusions, and only a slight stagger kindled from her movements; she ceased immediately and hid her frown. No waltzing, no elegance, no pixie, imp, elf candor could stir and simmer along her muscles, but at the very least, she could proffer the constancy of reveries and raptures, not daring to let the extensions of peace escape through threads of uncertainty. A beautiful aria tilted and spread from her lungs, offered to both in hopes they’d stay, stand, within the golden spheres of contentment and equanimity. “Regale me: what adventures have you been on lately?” Had Roland been enamored again with the return to their icy kingdom? Had Zikar-Sin learned of great, grand prophecies from his Disciple helm?