It hurt to see a friend in pain, and to remain incapable of doing anything. The truth came out on sighs and tears, on quests and failures, on dreams coming to fruition, but not without a vindictive price. The nymph listened, patient and kind, compassionate and understanding, because lord, she’d done the same thing before. She’d wanted and craved so much to protect, to shield, those she loved and cherished, and when the brutality was real, was tangible, thick and woven across her hide, the torment and agony had mottled any satisfaction. Her lesson had been valuable, tarnishing those beloved dreams – the pain had been so intense, immense, barbaric, and the only time she’d ever turned those sanguine songs into savagery had been upon monsters and fallen Gods. She hadn’t dared drum up the nefarious notes again. “I did the same thing once,” the maiden smiled, inching closer, daring to inspect the wound further, the deep, menacing laceration, the barbaric edges raised and rotting – and she held a sense of irritation for the Goddess who’d done this to her companion, who’d never deserved any misery set upon her. “I asked for a quest from the Sun God,” she continued, careful not to sing, but craving the melodies, the mellifluousness, to watch the infection flicker and be no more – gone, vanished, and quiet, tucked back into ruthless intentions. “I wanted to protect everyone in the Basin, so I yearned for the ability to harness fire.” Her head rose, honeyed eyes glancing into Alysanne’s, notching a small, thin smile across her lips, as if to spread awareness of her foolishness, that the painted Pegasus was not alone in her pursuits – that all they’d ever done was try to help others, and somehow, someway, they’d always been blighted in the process. “To ensure I understood the depths of my request, I had to be burned.”
 
She shook her head, tossing away those indignant indulgences, when all she remembered was the taste, the scorching, the smoldering of fire surrounding her, intending to harm Roland, throwing herself in front of him so not one single ember seethed across his skin; it’d been reckless and selfish, terrifying and treacherous. It shouldn’t have been that way for Alysanne, who was tender and good, warm and delightful, a piece of selflessness in a world so stained and tarnished by ruthless deeds and callous pursuits. Why her? Because she’d wanted to do some good across realms that couldn’t remember the last time someone committed an act out of the reverie, rapture, and beneficence settled in their hearts? “It didn’t take me long to comprehend.” The Songbird made no show of the scars crisscrossed along her back, folded under sienna hair, an ode to moments so stupid, so ridiculous, that she tried never give them voice (but to Atlas, but to Alysanne, because the former understood and the latter lived it – needed to know she was here with her, devout and sacred, blemished and altered just like her). Imogen sighed between their bond, not wishing to revisit the notions again.
 
“An infection will take some time to heal, though you had the right notion in coming to the sea.” The salt would be a natural curative, if she could stand the pain of its alms. Her stare was riveted back upon the sweet femme’s face, and a gentle sigh flowed through her. She felt utterly useless. “If you heal it, you will have to gain a new wound in its place. You’ll have to go through this all over again.” Her eyes were a bridge of earnestness and helpless dreams, craving so many things and not permitted to wield any of them – so she applied truths, continued the same course as before. “You’re strong. I think you can overcome this.” Gently, she proffered a shoulder towards the black and white ridges of Alysanne’s own figure, offering the only support and comfort she could bestow, especially as each wave curled over her wound. “You’ll show the Moon Goddess exactly what you’re made of.”