There is love in your body but you can't hold it in,
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin,
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks,
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

Lena, fae and fairy, drew from the platitudes of sky, air and earth, drank their sentiments, the chilling breeze that whispered along vast courtyards, the wild, arduous eaves that begged for growth, immersed her ethereal charms into its welcoming arms, wondered, hoped, and pursued. Driven by purpose, motivated by selfless ambition, she’d spent her hours scouring this newfound world for inspiration, delving into the tides of enigmatic clouds, the silence of the cool, callous tundra, the frosty indentations left upon pine and fir. She found shelter in the rocky outcrops of the mountains, slid and danced in the heart of the valley, nestled somber gazes into her restless fervor, reflected upon the realm with the kind, tender nuance of her elegiac stature. She poured her lone minuet, her sole waltz, her whimsical fantasies, her fanciful raptures and reveries into the placid, listless scenery, rendered it wholesome in her passing grace, in her affectionate dignity, in the flight of mercy and compassion, birds’ trills, flowers’ petals. Like an aimless wanderer all over again, the elegant Romani, the enigmatic gypsy, she provided radiance to the earth with the most idle, nimble tracings, always searching, always rummaging, longing to be granted the influence, the catalyst for her augured, presaged song. Could she trill about the land, the auroras that pressed against the horizon and sank them into a palisade of brilliant hues, the reverent swing of divinity an aid, a guide, a willing teacher? Could she chant about hope, fostered in the deliverance and aspiration of her brethren, a cherished renewal of yearning, longing passions? Could she chirp, hum, cry for the salvation of her kind, of the horned, of the war-torn, of the shelter, of the sanctuary? What would render her brethren assuaged, the revival of their land, the well wishes of her generosity? What would be the right note, the right chord, the stanza and lyric to assuage and harmonize, to mend the broken?

The chase for the influential catalyst only enamored her further, captivated, fascinated, enchanted by the runes and puzzles of the quandaries of invocations, and her frame followed this confident affair – twisting, contorting, dancing, free and untamed, lavish and ethereal, contained and tethered only by the strings of vehemence, of her radiant intensity. Beguiled and allured, she was ensnared by the dulcet croons and the feverish dreams of optimism, limbs pulsed along snow, sprung from the brisk, crisp embrace of its icy hold, relishing the touch, the promise, the conviction of her invigorating premise. She’d never held a dream so aloft, so possible, so regal, she’d seen too many wilt, wither, decay and rot, she’d never been given the opportunity to truly bestow the bliss of her affections, the divinity, the virtue of her humanity and morality. Now, she encompassed the covenant like a gift, unworthy and unsuitable, but still staunch, stalwart and valiant, longing to reach the pinnacle of her inclinations and aspirations.

She shifted towards the hot springs, beating the steady crescendo of soft hums along the kingdom, a billowing, sweet, honeyed stroke of optimism, prosperity, graceful, unearthly, bound to heaven and hell. The temptation of warmth guided her across the vacant, hallowed terrain, entrancing and invigorating, and her thoughts strayed to the wonder, fascination and admiration of its blessed presence within a glacial, Siberean world – did muse live here, in the frothing, fizzing tides of heat. The affectation was cut off almost instantly when her amiable gaze settled upon a form churning about the water, blowing bubbles into the cool air. She almost giggled, almost offered a laugh to combine with the curling, unfurling vapor that would rise and segment itself into riveting, enthralling spells, but her stare became fixated upon the wounds crossing over the stag, and the chuckles dissolved, empty and hollow, unheard. She didn’t know him, unfamiliar and foreign, but his lacerated, injured body was a damning reminder of many things, the affecting, looming chords of war, the chiming echo of defeat, that choking, suffocating silence of brutality that lingered in her own blood, in her own chasm of seclusion and serenity, tranquility and turbulence. The nymph frowned slightly, struggled to escape the bind of poignancy, the ensnaring rope that pulled and tugged over her features until valiancy provided the course of perseverance again, and a smile blossomed once more, fragile, but corporeal, distinct. Her approach was soft, silken webs of elegance and grace, a finesse kindled by mystical design, affable, gentle and genial, until she lingered on the edge of the spring, nearly touching the molten liquid, emboldened on its simmering bank. She didn’t shy from the stench, sulfur and infection, didn’t pull herself away from the gruesome, grisly sight of barbed, aching gashes, and instead, traced those arduous hopes and dreams across her features, sought his in the balance of cracked air and slashed sinew, a grin, a beam. Tilting her regal head to his immersed body, a provision gathered across her lips, parted the songbird’s mouth, and drank the mellifluous notions of hope, dreams and nurturing contortions. “I’m Lena – how can I help you?” Then, she pondered again, caught the curiosity of this stranger, wondered where he’d been, what he’d done, and what he wished to become.