The morning vestiges slinked and slithered along a tapestry of sunlight patches, hovering and cajoling along the entrance of the cave, then lingering on the walls, sprinkled across a few herbs sent to dry in its mystique. The Songbird wandered in and out of the radiance, shuffling here and there with a hum gliding from between her lips, serenading the darkness, the light, the columns of balance in between. The fairy’s actions were habitual, gleamed from seasons of the same, gliding on muscle memory and ardent regimes, fluttering this way and that for a spell, for an invocation, for a plucking of wisdom and sagacity. She reached for a bundle of plants and moved them elsewhere, studying their roots, their leaves, awaiting the day they could be more than just catalogued (when the greenhouse was finished and its glassy exterior protected them all, aided the growing process, so once one was found, they could plant it and it’d be anew again and again), surveyed, or obtained. Imogen bounced along the cold floor, batting at fallen wisps, following in the midst of absolution – they were all worthy distractions and deterrents from melancholy and desolation. Lena enjoyed the art of her occupation, especially when it afforded and proffered her whole attention. There were no ghosts here, swallowing and consuming the flora and fauna, no gloomy figures, no war mongers, no illustrious fiends – just tokens of healers, waiting for their moment to shine.
 
The nymph had placed one more towards the back of the cavern when she heard Mortuus Nox at the aperture, returning from the expedition she’d given him all that time ago. But he’d persevered instead of faltered, triumphed instead of stumbled, given up, or whined; he’d accepted his task with determination and diligence, and for that alone, the notion should’ve been triumphed. A smile appeared on the corners of her lips and she lowered the last blossom she’d been holding, placing it beside its brethren, before adhering to the summoning, the beckoning throng, towards the shimmering light of day. Imogen puttered along, curious and inquisitive, basking between legs and shifting her tails, while Lena’s attention segmented solely to the sable Nox and his wares. Her eyes fixated on his, tiara offering a humble bow, and solidifying her inquiry upon the plants strewn before him – some she’d never seen, known, or heard about. How interesting! One resembled a stem, pulsing, beating, with ichor like their own (she might have guessed where it’d been obtained, because she’d been amongst the chords of running blood), and the others were captivating in their own right and light; little berries promising strange fortunes. Her voice chimed, mellifluous and serene, along the layers of sand, snow, and sun, basking in the worthiness of his achievements. “Congratulations! How did you fair?” Head tipped, studying, examining, gaze scrutinizing the prizes he’d managed to discover, before shifting back to him again, gaze bright and full of wonder, curiosity, exalting the fabric of their movements and motions; always a healer, a reasoned, a mender, eager to assuage the broken. “What did you find?”