Bliss and contentment slipped away from her, quiet, hushed, and muted. She may not have noticed the soundless spiral of disenchantment had her scars not snagged against once ethereal movement, had her essence not poured grace and elegance but her body couldn’t conform, had the world not managed to display wickedness and death at every turn. A fairytale interrupted by thorns and brambles, courted in locks and chains, mired in demise and deceit, punctured by the nuance, the tragedy, the curse, that her actions were nearly meaningless. At times, they were even selfish, hoarding notions and ideas tangling and twisting beloved friends and companions, and only when she threw herself in the wiles and ire of danger could she save them from her mistakes. She’d wanted to do more, so much more - carve a niche into other factions, protect and preserve her kin, sculpt vigilance and perseverance, reign over potency, and not be a forgotten, unnecessary whim. The Mender had wandered amidst her frozen empire, her glacial fortress, with not a single demonstration of purpose other than smiles, other than benevolence, other than effervescence, and even now, she could sense it fading, colliding, brittle and broken. The femme had stood amongst caverns as a timepiece, a recollection, a promise of elation, when banished souls had craved mist and oceans instead of mountainsides, carrying satchels of daydreams and convictions. When the chilling winds called for her, she followed its sirens, its laments, its dirges and requiems, set them to rights through arias and instances; but incapable of naught more, was placed aside and forgotten in the next moment. A relic, an artifact, a sanctuary and sanctum barely used. Every moment she thought herself necessary and capable, she raced to the front, and then found junctures thereafter were agonizing decrees of ineptitude. She stared at fallen soldiers and still, prone figures, died and massacred, completely, utterly incapable. She prayed to the Sun God’s shrine, yearned to find a way to conquer demons and foes, and he wanted her kissed and cloaked in fire; a worthy punishment for an unworthy belle. She’d blazed with fervency, with passion, with ardency and refinement, and when hope took a sword into its heart, she could feel hers begin to tatter and tear.

The Songbird didn’t sing. The nightingale didn’t warble. The nymph didn’t dance.

There was barely a sound from the once-dreamer, drifting, wayfaring, and wandering from the beaches of the Endless Blue. The salt and sand and sea had soothed and assuaged the burns she couldn’t mend on her own, but she’d spent hours away from their gallant caresses and fleeting touches, stepping lightly, stumbling, fumbling, heading towards the Veins of the Gods. But the agony had returned, and the pink, raw marks blistered and scorched, until she felt she could move no farther (and god, when had that ever occurred; when her determination faltered at the hint, at the menace and malice of misery?). Unescorted, because she couldn’t ask Roland to attend to her again, not after the chaotic shambles of her fulfilled crusade endangered him so fully (because of her defiance in the eyes, in the gaze, of an antlered beast), her primrose path was seared and distorted, her breathless motions a grinding reminder of her stupidity. Imogen’s constant coos and trills did naught to solve the situation, so the vixen too grew silent and despondent, following her companion’s fall from opulence.

As the Ancient Rotunda unfolded before her sights, the sylph could barely process its magnificence: too many colors, too many hues, too much beauty pressing against her eyes. She dared to not even tread beneath its cool complexion and glassy fixtures, not worthy, not deserving, and instead, fixated her gaze upon the cool, babbling brook nearby. With its springtime vestiges, with its chilling oeuvre, it may have been enough to subdue the scalding pain across her hide, chiseled down her shoulders, rising along her barrel and over her spine, where the burns made tracks of all her follies and flaws. Imogen cast a careful, guarding eye, settling upon a rock as her mistress clenched her jaw and eased, wading, into the pool. The ivory fox only glanced down when Lena’s maw dipped below the surface, pretending not to see, not to hear, the hushed screams pulsing beneath the churning waters.

@[Tandavi]