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It kept happening. One murder after another, more and more creatures slain, shown no mercy, shown no compassion, leniency, or clemency; brutal monsters heaving subsequent onslaughts, harpooning innocent droves and throngs. Uncaring, defiant against their opportunities, their chances, to capture this heathen, this bestial flame, it tore, ripped, shorn, and pummeled individuals, leaving behind morsels, tidbits, as if amused, uncaring, disinterested and apathetic towards potential seizure. Her eyes focused upon the fallen bodies, pressed deep into the cavern, mired in a lover’s embrace, intending to save one another until both were taken, bludgeoned, destroyed. She gave a silent prayer towards their frames, both so gilded, so golden, so bright, so luminescent, had they been alive they would’ve inspired the sun to posture sonnets, hanging their head in rapt honor, morality, and grace. The same was given to the perished bird close by, the last watchful eye given to their bonded in a final requiem, in a dashed lament. The Mender closed her eyes and forged one massive breath, a weary sigh, tried to tie it towards solutions, towards justice, towards finding the mastermind and ensuring they were punished for their Tartarean upheaval. Only when she reopened them, glanced down at the cold, damp, cave floor, did she notice the small, white, downy feather tickled by the wind, frail and delicate, hastened in death’s everlasting grasp. Was this another signature of the killer, trapped and fostered from their greedy hands, descended and plunged from their frame? Her lips pressed into a firm line, stalwart missions casting a tenacious glow throughout her sanctum: like a swallow, like a dove, like a nightingale, she hovered and chased through the scenery, intending to announce the findings to her group, taking one more step towards discovering the guilty party.
Lena the Songbird |
