Melancholic heartstrings set her adrift, a time in between nocturnal eaves and the crescent sway, where she could grieve over the loss of hearts and beneficence, where she could stare across the vast, calamitous displays and wonder how she’d become so immersed in it. Perhaps she was no longer a sylph, but an angelic creature cast into purgatory, maligned and sinned and transgressed for actions that hadn’t been christened, hadn’t been anointed. Maybe she’d earned those charred scars along her back; maybe she’d concocted remnants of peace and prosperity, then watched them ignite. Maybe she’d cherished and loved a little too much, but not enough, and the striking fixtures of heavens, of virtues, denied her the warmth, the tenderness, and the ardor she’d always wanted. The Mender had forgotten what it meant to be a blossom, to be a soft petal cast into the sunlight, awakening by the adoration and allure of a brand new day. The nymph had forgotten how to dance beneath the moonlit beams, striking out against dirt and rubble and ruin, smiling and tracing the void with her picturesque refinement, with her fairy wings, with her glossy, beatific air. The sprite had forgotten what it meant to be whimsical, what it meant to turn and twist in the verdant, pixie-endeavors, what it meant to wander through hell and back and still laugh, still smile, free and assuaging, soothing and compassionate.
 
Now, all she felt was listlessness corroding her hide, her muscles, her fibers, her existence. She’d lost bits and pieces of herself along the way, tossing aside each affable smile for a scorching relish of ferocity, forgoing gentleness for a moment of barbarity – breaking herself apart, splintering, fracturing, and rupturing until she no longer remembered what she used to be.
 
She’d lost Roland too, watched him leave her behind in a reflecting glass, where all she could do was stare at herself and rage.
 
They wandered again, laboring amidst old habits and nomadic claims. Sometimes she felt like her prior countenance, glowing, prosperous, gilded with bright dreams and ambitions, when she roamed into the unknown, when she glided into labyrinths and enigmas, where no one knew how she’d failed, how she’d utterly come to be pathetic and misguided. She tried a whistle, a croon, and matched it against the stars, staring up at the twinkling lights and hoping to embody some of their cadence, some of their wisdom, some sign of sagacity that could lead her down a path not made of primroses. She’d just fall on the thorns.
 
Everywhere she looked were beautiful, unwinding constellations, and the pair stared, in awe, in beguilement, at the pliant strokes of the horizon’s paintbrush, dotted and lined with stretches of midnight allure, where the canvas was stretched into deep blue hues and the world didn’t seem so miserable, so wicked, so cruel. Imogen gave into mischief first, unfurling some of her ivory tails and watching them swing in time with the glassy puddles, eventually hopping from pool to pool, splashing amidst ghostly softness and silken tapestries.
 
There had to be magic, mystery, and hope here, Lena believed, she hoped, she prayed, because a realm so beautiful could not be full of decadence and upheaval. Somewhere amidst these palaces had to be a terrain of peace, of sanctuary, of repose.
 
So, the hummingbird, the butterfly, the swallow, took a plunge into the radiance, into the lush, poignant, haunting bells and tunes, diving into a singsong reverie. The ditty, the strain, the tune, glided effortlessly from her lips as she giggled, as she forgot to yield into sadness, as she laughed, as she turned into the refrain, cajoling, conjuring, tangible incantations of holy rites and hallowed raptures.