The final note keened, then fell apart across the void in the rush, the slinking, the stitching of skin, sinew, muscle and pelt, weaving a complete, corporeal form again, robbing the catacombs of another grave. Careful plaiting of the heart, of the soul, tangled over the follies, over the misfortunes, over the gambles mustered and conformed to his figure, tirelessly, an unrelenting force from the crackle, the incitement, of her undaunted prowess. As the cadence ceased, cacophony of belles, symphonies, carillons and sirens came to a sweet serenade, a varnished departure, her gaze (infinitely tender, because they all wore thorns in their halos, and despite whatever foolishness he’d dragged his frame through, he was still her friend, intrepid and doughty) swam over the splatter of rain and tempestuous atmosphere, wandered amongst his stature until they were certain each laceration was sown. A frequent pattern, checking over the scars and webbing of his blighted patches of scorn and might, a Mender’s efforts never truly complete until his next eradication of foes or withdrawing shadows; and still, she never asked where they came from, just as he never queried her of all her sylph secrets and covert croons. Even as he proclaimed debts, obligations, over and over again, she would hear naught of it. She was not a creature to remark or recall every formation of her healing sonnets and songs as if they were tokens and coins to be repaid in the future; the coiled essence of her heart was a selfless portal, stretching and elongating to provide the world she cherished, the brethren she loved, the companions she made, with bestowed pieces of her repose, serenity, tranquility, and sanctuary. If they called for her, she came upon the wind, along the forest, through the gale, to proffer her blessings, her grace, and begged for their salvation; not their retribution. Too often empires were not kind, Gods not gentle, elements not obliging, and so she gave every effort to fill in those hollowed sectors with her hallowed finesse, with her winsome smiles, and her unfailing constancy; allegiance to ice, to glaciers, to friends, gathered in the heights and rites of song. She shook her head at his request, laughed and smiled in the murky strings of showers, blinked rapidly as droplets fell across her cheeks and eyes, and the pervading tone of her harpsichord melody followed thereafter, an unwinding push and pull of poise. “You owe me nothing, Déodat.” She paused, allowed her gaze to follow over the hound nestled within his bond, fixated her grin back upon her lips as a rush of relief clambered back over her, another giggle, a wink extended in good humor and alleviation. “Though, I do wish we could meet more often under pleasant circumstances, instead of dire ones.”

The nymph strayed, as she often did with careful finesse, with heedful, vigilant artistry, away from the juncture of marred flesh and stained ichor, the acquiring of injuries and all the untold stories each one held (from monsters, from cretins, from infidels, or the makings of a unnoticed fury, a righteous blaze?). Instead, the assuaging of spirits, the ease, the returned, renewed strength, flowed amongst the wailing winds and the scattered droplets, sketching warmth and delight to the conjured invocations and sanctums; haven in a fleeting rapture, a stalwart strain. Lena rekindled it with a benevolent surface, skimmed over the embers and coils, waltzed along the line with candied indulgences and placid, listless regard, permitted the brute to shuffle into whatever subject he wished to encounter and share. “Besides taking part in perilous fights, how have you been faring?”