L E N A

She’d lived, survived, through the melancholies, the dirges, and the requiems, of sin. She’d set her eyes upon slates of mutinies, borne the brunt of calamity, felt the scourge of sieges postured against her heart and mind, felt her soul split into pieces from the weight of disdain, from the bitter lacquering of blood, and remained, persevered. The might, the valiancy, the stalwart incense that bloomed in her frame, that blossomed from the ruins of immorality, that held vicious roots, entangling and embroiling their harpsichord notes into her veins so that the rest of the world may hear her sing, may see her dance, may witness her thrive, beat a steady crescendo even as the world came crashing at her feet. Her honeyed eyes, beneficent and cordial, remained poised upon the morose, resentful femme as she fed barbs to the nymph, and for a few moments, Lena allowed them to puncture. Empty and hollow, unmerciful and ruthless, their callous blades wound an incision into the fae, and she listened to their tune, shifted her ears to perceive the sunken sound. She’d been taunted like this so many times before, heard the chilling call of uselessness, of inadequacy, of ineptitude directed towards her rings of solace, and had once let them sink into her lungs, render her that haunted, gaunt youth of desolation and forlornness, where the trees curled their leaves around her frame and sheltered her from the storms. But here, now, in the carnivore reverie of the Threshold, where dangers lurked and virtues barely mustered, she refused to coil back into the branches and boughs, she spurned weakness, and she prevailed, persisted, without withering, without decaying. And where the crisp spurn of cruelty had launched its assailment, she only offered the radiance, the calm compassion of her own rapturous candor. Vocals, dulcet and mellifluous, sprung from her lips: gentle and forgiving, elegant and refined, ghosting minuet chords to grace the sullen ones, to extend the rich harmony that she possessed. The mare’s dismissal of herself was itself disregarded, shoved aside by the guile, the cunning, of the sylph. "You don't know me, or what I could bestow." Even a smile wove itself into her lips, welcoming and genuine despite its small bounty, a forgiving heart amongst the war drums and acrid air. Always vivid, bright, illuminating - the warmth in the surly glow.

She asked her own question, this Chernobyl, and Lena, ethereal nobility, listened with her hushed atmosphere of strength and resilience. What did all recruiters seek from the Threshold but the ability to add life to their herd? And in this case, to render her broken, band whole, to complete some cycle of vigor, force and might that had been erased in the looming, gloomy days after the invasion, when they disappeared into the mist, into the abyss, of snow and ice. Her grin still remained, a passionate display of her ardency, delicacy and fervor, answering her all the more, the scathing, scalding, sharp interlude of flesh and soul. What had brought her here, what had simmered in her heart, what had battered her into this vessel of scorn – for this was not how babes were born, splintered and miserable. "I wish for my herd to regrow."