Amidst their discoveries, their wanderings, their idle, friendly conversations (and Imogen proudly preening at finding the flower, watching Hemlock uproot them with great fascination, a gentle drop to her jaw), Lena listened, procuring the knowledge of Alysanne’s family – and imagining the gentle lull of a father, the generous, warm tones of a sage, a wise, gallant mentor. Even though she’d never managed to procure a sire of such a nature, she delighted in the thought of it; passing the days beneath their guiding maws and warning glances, their cherishing smiles and clambering well wishes, their rigorous strength and potent power. Spirits of the forest, dryads, inhabitants of the copses and glades, sinking and simmering into the twisting leaves, the springing shoots, the shivering, maneuvering saplings; it sounded much like a dream (and she briefly wondered why Alysanne would ever want to leave it). Could he have curled vines, summoned shrubs, elongated wide, sheltering branches, built thicker boughs? Could he have manifested serenity, tranquility, with the whisper of his words, with the elegance of his heart, with the finesse of his sagacity? She reflected as they roamed, as they collected, as they chiseled away in the tundra’s bliss, paused to offer her sincerities, her deep, elongated smile for a cherished bestowal. “What heavenly memories. Thank you for sharing them with me.” And though she had none to offer herself, the flier didn’t ask, didn’t pry, didn’t pull across the veil of all of her secrets, chime and echo, inquire and wring, dip into the darkened bounty of the nymph’s childhood. For all of the Moon Doctor’s sweet, wonderful images, Lena couldn’t bestow a single one, except, perhaps, those few instances of peace, of deep, layered, bracken-like shadows, the forest hiding her from the rest of the world, drowning out the void of a nestled babe. She quieted thereafter, lost in the ambling haze, bright eyes cast into the shade of pine and fir, exploring the whims and fancies of what could have been; speculation for the cast away, consigned.

She was driven to further distraction at the painted figure’s proclamation, and her stare was cast towards the soft, vivid blue hue of the five petaled flowers, delicate, flourished in repose. The sylph outstretched her maw, carefully inspected the tiny bushel of flora, distinguishing its importance, its significance, to her wishes of the day. Her grin returned, brilliant and bright as ever, as though it had never dimmed or faded away, extended towards Alysanne, grateful for her clever eyes. “So it is!” Imogen slipped away from her attentive, querying glances at Hemlock, and proceeded to assist Lena pluck at the stems, gathering and collecting them together in a bundle in her mouth. Though unable to chirp or twitter in the current mode, she managed to swing her five tails in pride, in happiness, in contentment, matching the tune and sway to the successful day. Not forgetting or forgoing their task, the Time Mender conjured another spell of words, tilting her head at the exuberance, the wonder, the might of the hours’ follies and fancies. “Now, for your pasque flower.” She inclined her cranium in the direction they should search, ivory kitsune valorously flocking to her heels, seeking out the curiously shaped purple blooms, the strange, toxic indulgence of poison and remedy.