L E N A

A thousand queries plagued the femme, and she ushered not a single one to be answered. His story would remain an enigma now, lost to the chambers of wilderness that help him captive. She could have postured the warm, genuine smile that bolstered spirits, the swan, nymph elegance of her motions, or the graceful strings of her glowing candor, softened the chords of chilling snow. But here, in the crackling, still void of winter, there was no time to render bountiful sentiments of praise, of breathing, of life. Only that swift, frantic haze of liberation existed, bound to the tangled twine that eclipsed his life and hers, bound to the mortal coil of existence and deliverance. His presence would be renewed here, restored and revived, not swept away or stolen by the rapacious scythe of the reaper’s sinuous aspirations. She leaned into the reeling wind, strong, determined, valiant, the dulcet croon of conviction, hope and benevolence, melodic, seraphic grandeur carved into corporeal form, twisting her limbs towards the embankment, sliding against the harsh brush of ice. Extending her muzzle as if to offer its support, she ushered him onward, the mellifluous defiance her warm siege against the mottled, bestial hark of death and devastation. He stirred, sliding against the cold, frozen parlor that had almost snuck his last breath away - fighting for his sentience, his existence, and she lavished the world with his power, thanked his body for not sacrificing those idle moments of time. ”Well done!” Lena floated downward ever further, meeting his body along the crisp, thicker ice, petal soft footfalls brushing over the glacial expanse, the regal, deadly beauty of its harsh magnificence. Her eyes caught the wound, but she did not hesitate, did not quake, did not lose herself to the wicked edge of its searing, ruthless appearance – her gaze slid elsewhere, to the long, heavy horns he carried, to the body that would one day heal. She smiled now, dipped her head to his ears and postured a statement of safety, of aid, of assistance that didn’t drown in the cruel arch of heinous gales. “If you can rise, you may lean on me. We shall get you off of this ice.” She commanded one more feat of strength from his limbs, and then she’d invoke the rest from her own creation, from her own entity. She’d proffer and bestow her own vitality if he could promise another from his own wrecked, tormented chords.