The rumors compelled her, intrigued her, delved deep into the core of her beliefs, of her history, of her memories; circulations and stories of the Hidden Falls no longer relegated to an empire, left, abandoned, by their patron God. Curiosity had always been a vice and a virtue, brimming over her surface until it pervaded the deep denizens of her soul, pulsed through her heart, spellbound her mind, and no sooner had the concept of exploring the very place she’d once been kidnapped entered her membrane, did she and Imogen spring up from their cavern and race across the horizon. How had it changed? How had it been altered?
 
She knew the route – swallowed when she recalled tracing its outline, its primrose path, when Ulrik the Engineer had shouted his challenge for her to return home, when she’d been obliged on the fringes of war, when she’d heart the shouts, the howls, the defiance scattered amongst the rubble, too late to help, to guide, to soothe, useless, ineffective, just as the Falls had wanted her.
 
It was a restless endeavor, an artful crusade; neither danced, neither waltzed, neither conducted hallelujahs, pledged reverence. They bowed their heads at its entrance, ducked beneath branches and boughs, only giving, granting, obliging the smallest of hums, easing the racing, apprehensive junctures of her essence. When no one stopped them at the borders, when no one craved for their purpose, she understood the stories to be authentic, and the Songbird stilled for the barest of moments, lifting her hoof over the fringes after careful, deliberate consideration, sinking into the threshold’s embrace. The pair were quiet and solemn, a composition of tranquility and serenity, staring out over the endless edges of greenery, of life, things she’d never noticed beyond not yearning to be there before. Her eyes found ghosts at first, just legions of spilled, inky rivulets twisting over the fronds and plumes, the massive leaves, a haunted breath forming over her lips before she drew to some other column, some other tree. The nest in which she’d been lain was long gone, smoothed out by the passing of hooves and herd members, so she didn’t stay within the old traces for long, linger her sights on the open terrain that was once only a battlefield. She neglected the whispers, the silence, the foreboding that reminded her of Ink, and how he’d only done his duty, how he’d snagged and ensnared her on her way to her brethren. Her stare chanced over the rushing water she’d once heard echo across the tree limbs, wandering towards its confines, and merely witnessing its stark, rushing power – pondering why it’d been left to ruin, wondering why the Earth God had consigned it to oblivion; placing a gentle smile on her face as Imogen chirped, trying to regard the spirits of the vines, of the ponds, of the glade as more than just a tormented realm; but a world alive with color and pleasantries. Its kin must have cherished it, must have loved it, must have given it all of their spirit, all of their strength, all of their vitality – and then, to have it taken from them…she attempted to imagine it, deeper than the boundaries she resided within, deeper than the green walls and the bubbling ponds, taken – and her heart broke a little at the notion of a world with more refugees, left to only be discovered, not tended.

Lena the Songbird

tomorrow will be kinder