She basked in the glow of something familiar, weaving to and fro over the embankment of nature, calmed and soothed by the daffodil grains and lavender plumes. The nymph hummed and sang while she worked, collecting elemental treasures to restore pending tribulations, and hardly gave a thought to anything but the general splendor of her task. Roland responded, and she grinned, Imogen dancing beneath wide oaks and tall maples, and everything seemed to weave contentment; her heart didn’t quake or beat rapidly at a sign of danger, her mind didn’t unravel at a hint of treachery: she was free to be adrift in the song and waltz of her motives and aspirations. But then a sound ricocheted through the trees, an emboldened calling of her name, and she raised her head from the careful study of a little fern – her breathing stopped. A chaotic shuffle sprinted and dashed through her skull, every nuance, every sound, every droplet or exultation of movement simmered and seethed alarms in her head. Öde? In disbelief, she blinked multiple times, thinking she’d somehow managed an illusion, a hallucination, brought on by stress and treachery and trepidation, but he continued appearing before her eyes, just as bright and whimsical as before. How could this be? The last she’d seen him, the Mender had mourned his death, saw his fallen body across the cold floor, lost and forlorn, as if nothing she’d done to mend him of his demonic traces, of his devil sketches, had mattered, for something else had snatched him away from life. She’d collapsed on the cavern ground and sang little bits of serenity when none had appeared. She’d marched into horrors and trials when she believed she needed to gain strength, to fight against monsters, to beat back the foes who’d conquered the child. Something was terribly wrong here, and the sylph nearly collided into Roland at her quick, abrupt movements, neither shying away nor maneuvering closer, too confused, too muddled, too bewildered by the renewed presence of the little stag. Imogen began to panic slightly at the cessation of Lena’s composure, twisting her eyes back and forth over reborn colt and her bonded, trying to make sense of the notion, but incapable of doing so. The Mender’s voice rang bright, beautiful bells, curling fronds of hope, of confusion, of apprehension, desperate to find answers in the drowning deluge. “I’m glad to see you again.” If her last words ended on a sharp sniffle, an abrupt faltering of indulgent tears, she neither noticed nor indulged in them further. She scarcely noticed poor Deodat and his partner sauntering in nearby, too distracted by the lad’s phoenix capabilities. Her heart nearly broke at the next set of vocals, but she had to know, she had to understand. “How are you alive, dear Öde?”