Heave the silver hollow sliver,
Piercing through another victim.

There was no comfort in loss. No soothing balm, no assuaging wings, no tranquil disposition. There was only the muted feeling of nothingness, slinking and coiling in the pit of her stomach, an unwelcome feeling she’d possessed before and never longed to hold again. It was another heartbreaking rendition of loss; there was no home to return to, no shelter, no salvation from the beating drums and din of war – merely the inclination that they’d survived, that they still breathed between the corridors of clouds and earth, that they still claimed souls. Even then, there was still a piece of themselves torn away, locked into a jagged landscape that no longer belonged to their horned beings, procured by other grasping hands and fingers, teeth and nails. To what purpose? To what end? A sordid tale, doomed to be enshrouded in the mysteries and miseries of the cruel world set before them, ignited and incensed in each jarring juncture as the story swept across the lands. Perhaps, an even more miserable sentiment was the state of their own Doctor, locked away, imprisoned by enemies, untouchable, unattainable as his own kind rippled across their lands, trying desperately to hold onto pieces and shambles condemned. And when his beloved herd could finally break away his chains, there was naught left. Embers, dust, cinders and blood.

Lena didn’t wallow, sulk or pout. She’d save that for another occasion, when the distorted, shambled walls of her mind and heart broke, etched and scorned, cracked and frayed. In this interlude, thrown from the gates of a world she’d begun to call home, she had to retain the air of an Emissary. She was still a diplomat, still an envoy and consul for an entity of swords, and no matter how wounded or miserable she felt, she couldn’t show it. She’d chosen this role and would adhere to it, persistent and unwavering, the ardent swan, the cheeky dove. She was stalwart, she was mighty, and she was strong, and she’d remember this in the quiet moments where desolation, sorrow, seemed so appealing. Her strides were sharp, elegant, intertwined into the aching twists of newfound wounds, limbs pummeled, scratched, but not undying, not withering, not so tainted by the wiles of the earth that she would limp to the gallows. All grace in the midst of destruction, forever enameled and lacquered within calm, composed disposition. She didn’t look behind her, towards the halls that traced back to the Edge, along the horizon of oceans and cliffs. Her crown, once bowed, once weak and weary, was raised high as she led her brethren to the dusty, sandy threshold of the Dragon’s Throat, enacting the first path on their way to regrowth: to rescue, recover and redeem one of their own. A time to heal, a time to renew, rise from their ashes. When they reached the borders, together, forceful, tenacious, determined, she postured her voice to the wind, pinned their desires to the turbulent earth. “We come for our Doctor.”

Turn and tremble
Be judgmental
Ignorant to all the symbols.