The borders were a hushed aftermath, and like bare, thin, glimpses beyond the veneer, the world portrayed the sullied void; the pristine grandeur of the peaks, of the valleys, threatened and endangered, then the warning, the omen, the reckoning, destroyed and decomposing. Like painted runes, the kingdom told a brief, epic story, collisions of ice and protection, of brutality and preservation, of all the savageness immersed deep into their souls, how far, how quickly, they were doomed and destined to repeat it. She too had been among the gathered, vivid, bright, brilliant strength condensed into barbaric wrath and wily, artful machinations – for a time, like so many others before her, desecrating iniquity while invoking and kindling the flames of her own debauchery. Still, quiet, listless, her heart beat as a monolith, as a stone, as a shard of rubble, languid in the distant anarchy, stare seizing the scene, posturing it along her mind as another poignant image for the future, rotting denizens and keen carnivores, searching and agonizing, lusting and yearning, and how she’d taken a part in their annihilation – whether or not she should be proud of the latter. Imogen sat beside her hooves, a triumphant statue, a glazed form of the beauty, the tranquility, the allure of danger and its potency, fire and brimstone, rigor and malice, the coaxing fuel and whims to Lena’s inner quandaries, and the maiden gestured to her companion with a wan, dim, faint, weak smile, before glancing towards the fallen canines, soon to be buried beneath the weight of winter and the forgotten opus of treachery. They’d be lost souls, tragic and bleak, trapped in only idle memories, when tempers rose, flared, when guardians united, when sentinels lumbered, when even her lustrous grins were sullied and turned to dust. Not as crisp, not as worn, not as tethered and shackled as the invasions or wars, but enough of a glint, enough of a rasp, to scrape against her ribs and bones, reminding her of the licentious lacquer and layers strewn amongst her thorny soul. Spilled secrets, noxious passions, specious, capricious moments scattered and thrown, tossed into the inferno, gathered for speculation and contortion; she drove her features into grim, stoic composure, like the calm, unflappable wind, and struggled to regain the inner serenity, the bubbling boldness, the clever audacity, and the brazen compassion she’d forgotten in the chilling air.

Another maneuvered along the carcasses, sleek and golden, putting the corpses to use instead of silent, unsung burials. She didn’t recognize the stag, couldn’t put a name to a face, but examined him all the same from her rime hill, soft and distorted along her little icy knoll. Curiosity, inquiry and regard, reared its careful head, and the more she studied, the more she fixated, the more she analyzed and surveyed, she noted the wounds, the limp, the faltering in his stride. Perhaps he’d been amongst the din, the throng, battling the earth, the travesty, for a touch of power, for a caress of menace, putting down the malicious intentions of another predator, then became caught in the ripping, snapping jaws of their opponents. Maybe he’d been a recent player in a spar, chasing down dreams of glory and massacre, one day leading the charge for their worthy brethren, felled and pierced by an ally. The Mender’s inaudible assessment ceased, and her silken footsteps pattered amongst the Orangemoon follies, courting laurel petals and the last, dim rays of autumn sunshine, carefully tracing over the fine filaments of finesse and dulcet grandeur; tenderly wrapping her alms in a speechless gesture. His wounds, as she gained closer access, festered and brewed toxic indulgences, brooding only the feral indignation of a lasting infection if not treated immediately – it required strength beyond her aria intimacy, her singsong virtues, her bird beneficence. The sylph harkened into the chambers of her powers, possessed and seized the arches of time, the sweeping hands of fate, closed her eyes and gave into the puissant blend of hours, moments, junctures, seconds, and days, coveted the past and relished the future, swept the intangible, incorporeal, threads of a Gods’ influence. They swam, they floated, they caressed over the deep lacerations, the moldering brambles, the toxic ministrations, until what was once rotten and menacing became smooth and opulent, radiant and gilded, as if naught had ever pierced through the heart, through the sinew, through the flesh of his limber figure. Her gaze, opened and alive once more, glanced towards the pockets of previously torn measures, and only regained the open gesture of a smile when she’d witnessed closure and invisible sutures. Imogen, cascading in ivory dances and wry waltzes, pranced at her side, tilting her head towards the stag. Eventually, amongst the mystery and labyrinth, the songbird parted her lips and sang a mellifluous harmony. “Are you well, sir?”