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 The amiability blended into cordial surroundings, pleasant coils of warm steam, easygoing conversation, plumes and vibrant hymns of platitude, of tranquility, of unsaid moments cast back into shadow and light. Her smile remained, bright and illuminating, cast into refined grace and beneficent qualities, rendering polite intrigues with the daughter of one of her dear friends. “I’m well.” Thereafter, it was the pending acceptance or refusal drifting through the confines of the Songbird’s mind; if Mirabella was to be among those quick to hasten her pride, demean and reduce those who’d ruined it, or savor the option to revitalize, grow, bloom, and blossom from her experiences. The silence, the judgment, plagued and swarmed, tensed and dove, because Lena still didn’t know how she felt about the matter entirely – one moment hoping, praying, salvaging all the remnants of peace, of repose, expecting others to feel the same – and becoming a witness to when it was all dashed away with vicious embers and dying ashes. The Lord had apologized for his actions and justified his means; but would he do it again? Would an altruistic crusade end in vicious, vile interludes, or would they be able to cherish restful vows? The world was constantly churning and changing, and naught could be said for the future. The Mender breathed a silent exhalation of relief, however, when the little lass took the proffered item: for now, perhaps they’d been given a slender opportunity for serenity. Imogen tenderly ducked out of her garb, and the amulet glittered and glistened at Mirabella’s feet, granted and given in promises and convictions. The nymph hastened a calm, composed response, cherished the firm wisdom she could bestow, she could ignite and kindle upon the small babe. “A wise choice. May it remind you some actions, some flaws, and some mistakes can be reversed.” For how long was the true gamble. Lena</style> |
