Imogen sat, diligently, on the other side of the mirror. She allowed Roland to pass her by. She listened to the garbled words of the feline. She stayed as she’d been commanded, waiting, beside the reflecting glass. She didn’t stray. She didn’t move. Her eyes were completely fixated on the veneer, presuming her bonded would step through at any moment. But the minutes ticked by, slow, tedious, monotonous and maniacal, and still, no Lena. Her mind swam over their connection, pulsed queries, questions, inquisitions, because maybe the curious Songbird had remained there out of curiosity (she was prone to doing that), had found something of worth or value, had chosen a different path from the gilded stag, and was just taking her time. But there was no answer, no strain, no aria, and no fold of gentle murmurs. Several of her tails twitched, fur bristled, hair rising at the sudden sensation of dread, of panic, of emboldened rage. Where was the Mender with her bright smiles and delicate heart? Where was the nymph who gallivanted with grins and who thought of everyone before herself? Had she been taken? Had she been stolen all over again? Had she been a sacrifice -

She stilled, drew in a heathen, molten breath, and narrowed her vulpine eyes, crafty, cunning, and sinister, towards the remaining members of the party. Her savage gaze landed upon Roland first, and though she could tell he was angry as he fired his words back towards the ridiculous riddlemaster, Imogen couldn’t help but be vexed and irritated at him. Who was supposed to protect Lena while they were wandering inside a mirror? Who was supposed to be watching over her? A harsh, loathing outcry drove from the kitsune’s lips, piercing and puncturing like a feral roar, and if she didn’t know the beast so well, she may have unleashed a torrent of fire over his feet; but her stare continued elsewhere, swept over the stupid sphinx with its stupid smiles and its stupid rhymes and its stupid, insipid smirks, simpering and gesturing and cleaning as if nothing had been unsettled and torn apart. A sinuous, serpentine movement followed and flickered, watching, witnessing, where the cretin went (and damn her, landing upon the Impersonator’s back so Imogen couldn’t fan all of her contempt, all of her loathing, upon the witch: demand and command that she release Lena from this glass prison), following with her rigid stares, with her unpleasant motions, with her vicious, ferocious growls.

But most of all, the vixen was frustrated with herself. She couldn’t do anything because Lena had commanded her to remain. She couldn’t do anything because Lena hadn’t wanted her hurt, because Lena was sometimes just as numb as the rest of them, putting herself before everyone and everything.

She snarled, and waited, because that’s all she was permitted.

- - - - - -

On the other side, the captured nymph, bottled and enclosed and locked amongst her mirror prison, stared resolutely at the glass. Regaining her feet, stumbling, listless, languid, exhausted, she arrived upon the portal’s fringe and rested her brow on its cool sanction, on its cold, raw, unrelenting power. Still enticed by rage, still glorified and haunted by the pressing bellows of abhorrence, she angled her horn, and slid it downwards, listening to the scrape, the hollow, hallowed sound, of breaking, splintering, crystal.