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

As a child, Lena had named herself. Nobody else had bothered. She’d chosen letters from her parent’s callings, the sweeping ending syllables of Menle, the eternal brush of a in poetic petals from Semla, and then the beginning of her brother’s, Nestor, combining the sweeping turns into they formulated something coherent, lyrical, soft verse settled in stone. She’d tested it along her tongue, drank it in the scenery and breathed it against water, until it conjured into a lilting, euphonious herald – and despite the dubbing bearing no significance, no meaning, it was the first thing she could call her own, something no one else could take away from her. She wore the moniker with pride, even when her herd forgot it in the breadth of time, space and apathy.

She had erred somehow; of this, she was certain. Pressed too much, sought cheer where it was not welcome; kindled a flame that had already burned out. The distress lining the blue-coated mare caused the sienna an anguished heart, the humorless, vacant smile, begrudgingly present, from the frosted sovereign reminded her of many things she longed to forget – in response, she dimmed. How many times had she been elated, vivacious, where it was unwanted, tarnished, destroyed for the sake of other emotions? How many times had she captured bliss in a bottle and had it broken in front of her? How many times had she foolishly judged a situation and found herself amiss, ignorant and discarded? She lowered her bright features slightly, allowed her eyes to slip away from the scene and onto the searing horizon, quiet, muffled, distancing herself from the wrongs she’d committed. Even her head tipped in apology, dipped against grandeur, letting the halo slip and errant stare to dabble at the hooves of her herd. Was she already doomed – had she already devastated bridges, irked others, annoyed them until ultimately, they would no longer care for her presence, chase her away, drive her off? Careless in her buoyancy, in her eager, genuine smile, in her animated display, that she’d forgotten how many were not content with the irrepressible rapture of a lonely, hopeful soul. Experience should have hindered her motions, her nymph, coquette mischievousness, but foolishness, ardor, fervor had overwhelmed her thoughts, had secured an overwhelming bounty of fairy motions that were undesirable. She’d bothered her for a calling, and neglected, overlooked how important some secrets were, how closely guarded the roan kept her labyrinthine mysteries, how they could harm, hinder, scorch and pierce if unfurled to the masses, if not kept tight and locked away.

Lena slipped away when their eyes left her, when she had returned Aurelius’s light, teasing nips, and when attention reigned on the other mare – and she was infinitely sorrowful that she’d somehow ignited this behavior where it may not be aspired. Still soft and silken, her movements stroked against the barbs of ash and embers, brushed along brush, the bracken grime of a once precious glade. But beneath the coals, there could be something that prospered her forgiveness, that earned back trust where it could be sullied. The slender, lissome body touched and caressed feeble blankets of cinders, some still glowing with that burning, yearning urge to fuel and flame, pushing them aside with her velvetine muzzle. If they simmered, ate and bit at her skin, she didn’t respond or cry out, honeyed eyes searching whilst ears listened to the ongoing conversation – of callings, nicknames, personal attributes fostered by others – she inwardly cringed. It urged her onward, until finally, underneath some discarded branches, she found flowers, nestled together, stretching towards the sun in the dank, murky shadows of their burial. Both cerulean blooms, one long, the other pointed, reminding her of stars, were plucked from their burrow, delicately placed along her lips.

When she returned, covered in soot, her silken, smooth movements only pressed towards the fellow femme. Delicately, airily, she drew the flowers, bluebell (for I am sorry for what I’ve done) and borage (for I wish you bravery in the depths of future fear), amongst the dark mane of the rain-cloud mare, matched and blended into her cloud-like haze, tucking them gently in the yielding strands behind her ears. Stepping back, she admired her work with a light smile, but didn’t giggle, didn’t laugh, didn’t haunt the scene with wild, boisterous actions. Instead, she offered the slip of melodic tones and the hint of a wisdom fostered by experience, sadness, and the waves of yesteryear. “Yet, the one you give yourself is the most personal and precious.” For once, she didn’t participate in an offered game. Merely, she allowed the other to be. To proffer what she wanted, what she would choose to be called, what made her heart beat with safe, precious thoughts.

[ooc note: In the language of flowers, a bluebell stands for humility, while a borage stands for courage.]