The Songbird paid close attention to the surrounding vigil, to the restless phantom who’d required her powers, to the lovely Johnny, to the quiet Zyanya, all nestled and bundled in their close-knit gathering. She thought, for the smallest of moments, Albrecht wouldn’t partake in her request, that he’d seethe and sputter, that’d he vent and rage, that he’d raise his hackles as he’d done at a previous meeting of minds, and she’d be forced to raise hers in return. However, she was content when he bowed to her whims (perhaps his vexation was more discreet, or she had a much firmer command than she’d realized), and paid obligations to the companions who had rescued and restored him, only frowning slightly at his backhanded compliment to Jellybean. Her praise went on in silence, gazing reverently towards the beloved, flying corgi, winking, smiling, grinning until everything seemed settled; her heart beating a far steadier beat. The panic was over, the situation dissolved, and she was left to stare across their range of beatific faces and one cantankerous, healing tempest, for whom she’d rather see spewing and spouting than too quiet, too hushed, beleaguered by pain and torment. She rose from her laden position, stretching and rolling the various muscles through her neck and shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief she hadn’t realized she’d been holding all the while. The Mender’s gaze sought only Albrecht’s for a moment, though she was certain he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t sense, her resolute convictions, her valorous strength, or her diligent urgings through his eyelids. “If it begins to hurt again, please come find me.” The femme nodded, and Imogen arched a brow, forming a silent query neither bothered to voice or respond to – and Lena’s stare riveted to both Zyanya and Johnny again, still thankful for their efforts. What would have happened had she been too delayed? Too slow? Too consumed and busy elsewhere? Albrecht had been in good, reliable hands, even if he loathed admitting it. “You were all splendid. Thank you for your quick minds and sharp intuition.” She paused, focusing on the candied beast, “Perhaps we’ll make a healer out of our Weaver,” and laughed, knowing she was being silly, but rejoicing in the fact that they could be, because the danger had passed and she wasn’t struck down by a lament, by a dirge, by a funeral song down by the riverbank. The fairy’s eyes swiveled to Zyanya too, proffering and bestowing, always eager to offer benedictions to a friend. “You are welcome to assist the Menders anytime, Zyanya. Let me know if you’re interested in our healing ranks.”