The last vestiges of Orangemoon curled beneath freshly fallen snow, withered, decrepit, and decayed, forgotten about while they fed and nourished the soil for an augured Birdsong.  She uncovered some now, deep between branches and boughs, layered under the first few inches of the fine powder, smiling, understanding what it was like to be ignored or disregarded, comprehending the nature of overlooked beasts and neglected shadows. How many times had they all wandered past someone they once cared for, once beloved, not noting the changes? Not realizing the alterations? Or how many instances were trapped and snagged in disappearances, the wiles and whims of another emboldening on a chase towards the horizon, no end in sight, no story told, no excuses made? How many hours had passed since they were simply left behind?
 
Seasons, the Mender told herself, and Imogen pressed a flat line along her fox mouth, not bothering to say a word.
 
They wandered down into the midst of the Fields, pursuing naught but a tiny piece of heaven and a woven thread of deliverance. They clutched a few stray herbs here and there, attempting to rescue and offer sanctum to the flora before winter truly arrived, poking at the cold, frozen earth with grace and dignity. The pair tried to forgo the lasting embrace of a brigand gone to other regions, of smiles taken and then thrown aside, of charms and freedoms and things that should’ve lasted suddenly flickering and falling apart.
 
Maybe it was another test of strength – the ability to overcome a broken heart.
 
She’d been given so many trials, tribulations, and appraisals; and she’d thought, once, while dancing in shimmering caves or basking in a warm, tender glow, wings unclipped and grin soaring, that she wouldn’t be given such an exam, because she’d passed so many others, she’d struggled and tried and swam against the current. Sometimes needlessly, something to support others, sometimes to simply showcase what she could do, how she could grow, how she wasn’t a stranger to adversity, how she wasn’t fragile but strong and enduring…
 
Lena picked one more strand of a plant managing to outlast the cold, shaking her head in solidarity, when Imogen became wholly distracted. Her kitsune ears pricked, her attention stole over the fronds and fields, staring into a nearby woodline, chirping, hesitant and unsure. Something there, she proffered through their connection, and the sweet, gentle Songbird, not intending to bother anyone else on this chilly morning, prospered only an arch of her brow. Leave them at peace. If another had found their sanctuary, their haven, she was not about to interrupt, and chase them from their refuge.