Poetry in scales, in rhythm, in rime, in stanzas and collected, assuaging tones sprung over the well wishes and facades; reached forth, snared, grasped, and plucked away the harsh veils and the vindictive ramifications. There’d been more, so much more, underneath the layers and fissures of cracked horns and webbed monstrosities, but she’d pressed where she could, soothed where she’d dared, and smiled when it was over – mouth closed, songs sung, another moment in time segmented by the tell-tale switch of hours and minutes. The Songbird watched the transformation, opened her eyes to witness the splendor of memory cross back over the starry figments and the galaxy formations, rendered speechless for a matter of instances as Ki’irha seemed to flicker back to life, away from the cliff’s edge, away from the bloodied precipice, and back into the tangible world – no matter how brutal, how barbaric, how cryptic it was. She altered, transformed, from the weary, depressed traveler (with nothing, with no one) back into the strong, enduring figure Lena remembered, triumphing over the gallows - unrelenting, just as she should be. The grin wasn’t misplaced then, glorious and strung by silent hallelujahs, beautiful hymns and prayers that only crossed through her mind, sparking, sizzling, out of reach, destined for virtues and other sentiments. Then Ki’irha was all motion and conversation, no longer burrowed and hidden, but varnished, enameled, a beautiful, incandescent glow of the night sky and its illustrious court, and the sylph bowed to her, tucking her head to her chest in a sign of perseverance and determination, steeling her brow with those subtle lines and reverent exclamations (You can do this, she wanted to say to her - You’ve always been capable), but the inquiries blended themselves elsewhere. Why wouldn’t you deserve it? the nymph yearned to ask, but the delicacy of the moment was gone, overshadowed by further intrigues, where she should go, where she needed to be.
 
“I’m glad it was successful.” There came her smile again, etched with finery and fire, ears swiveling, catching every nuance, every sound, every syllable sketched with glory instead of brimstone, embers, and coals. Which family would you choose? had never echoed so prominently – because she truly only had one. It had always been those in the Basin, steel-forged and brazen, bold and audacious, nonchalant and guarded, who’d offered her any form of family at all. She’d been born elsewhere, but that hadn’t mattered in the slightest, because Helovia had been the world where she’d grown the most, where she’d extended her petals and let them turn into power and might, where Gods had seen which path she’d walked, where she’d churned loss into conquest, where she’d gritted her teeth and bore the weight of a thousand legions. Within the icy outcrops were her kin, her beloved, her devoted, her heart, her lungs, her soul, the very air she breathed, the very ground she waltzed upon. There’d never be a question where she’d go to next – but Ki’irha had more ties (to young Mesec, to her children), had more knots, had more tangles, had more brambles and nests, so the Songbird mulled it over carefully, pondered what her course of action would be if left in the same dilemma. “The Basin will always be there,” she beamed with such sincerity, with such veracity, that there was no doubt that the mountains would still be tall, would still be grand, would still be wonderful, no matter the day Ki’irha set her foot upon their boundaries. It’d welcome her as a warrior, as a guard, as an inhabitant, when she believed it was time. “You should find your children. I’m sure they’ve missed you.”