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 No time had been wasted; a spark, a flicker, of rose and pinkish hues, the summoned babe christened, regarded, floating to the beacon. Lena smiled, remembered the precious hours the child had spent in her care, generously bestowing invitations, carefully crossing borders and herd lines, meandering through valleys, dunes, and hills – but she hadn’t guarded her enough from the cruelty of the world, and the Mender could only hope the child hadn’t delved into the cold, callous machinations, could still embrace the heartfelt, the steadfast, the effervescent. She polished a mellifluous aria, concocted and composed serenades, reminded the world of munificent beams, of charitable moments, of compassionate flames and wholesome interludes. “How are you, Mirabella?” She lowered her head, delved her honeysuckle gaze into the child’s own mixed stare – a vibrant figure carved and sculpted for her father; the nymph could see the strength, the resolution, but also the youth, the juvenile tendencies, the wayward path to growing and blossoming. Her grin deepened and she drew a solemn breath, the presaged conversation would not be easy, and she had no way or means of predicting the child’s reactions. “I met with Lord Midas.” She had no intentions of reliving the disappointing moments, beautiful bark markings crisscrossed and sketched into an etched invitation, burnt to a crisp, folding amongst themselves until they were mere ashes, foiled beacons of merriment. Instead, her crown inclined towards Imogen, who bounced forward towards Mirabella’s wake with the amulet gilded and glowing around her neck, a gift bestowed and proffered to a babe who shouldn’t have seen the perils, the flaws, the hazardous wreckage of adults. “He asked me to give you this amulet – a token of his apologies.” Her lips pressed together in a thin line, her ardent thoughts a whirlwind of conclusions and pathways, crinkled and divided. One last query solidified the impasse. “Will you accept it?” Lena</style> |
