Lena had inadvertently given a piece of herself away, chiseled off a shard of porcelain and let it float in the wind, cross over meticulous minds until it became a curious notion, embedded for future ruminations. Was there a realm without the sullied edges of schemes, molten and swaying, sultry and blinding, winding around the frayed strands of ignorant minds? Was there a kingdom without the enticing, alluring scrape of ruses, plots and stratagems, designed to coax, intrigue, beguile until the trap had been set, escape out of reach, futile? Was there a sovereignty without the peril of tricks, without the riddles of Cheshires and Sphinxes, without the Machiavellian grins? She had not come from butterflies and fairy tales, had not been plaited into winsome smiles or heavenly gestures, had not been rendered the light of repose. The dream of living within raptures, within reveries, traipsing amongst stars and clouds, moonbeams and sunlight, glades and rivulets, was one of idealistic aspirations, and the nymph hadn’t been marked for virtue, for divinity, for conviction when her life was brought upon the earth. She knew cruelty, could sing the dirges, the requiems, the laments of lost life and failed bedlam. She knew savagery, could play the percussion of its entropic din as it slid from conquest and victory to mere brutality. She knew cunning, could breathe the ministrations of lies, of deceit, watching as it stole harmony from harpsichords, rendered it a specious stage. She knew barbarity, could paint a canvas with its wild, unrestrained pools of crimson staining the floor. What should have remained, what had been stripped from her lustrous, glowing core, was the fine, delicate wave of innocence. Lena, persevering and elegant, strong and arduous, would never regain the mellifluous chords of simplicity, where the grass wavered and the breeze tickled, teasing laughter and the carol of bells echoed. She’d never know the sounds, the sights, the tastes and delights that the blessing of guiltlessness had to offer.

The sylph caught the Frostheart’s eye and looked downwards, focused on the lush, wavering plumes and fronds, as if ashamed that some part of her of her soul had been displayed, an unholy revelation that she didn’t belong in the arms of morality. Her gaze sought the reliable turf while her mind churned over the possibilities of granting another swindler his oeuvre in the shade and shadow. She’d bore witness to the art, watched as it combed the earth of her heathen brethren, ensnared and entangled foes, fought against it as it swam in her veins, crooned hellish whispers in her heritage. She’d heard secrets spread, dovetailing amongst the boughs and copses, listened as they wound around throats, choked the life out of its recipients. She’d observed the darkening trace of confidential alms bound over the dawn and wander in the twilight, leave broken fancies lying in the dust and dirt. There were many reasons for her to doubt the golden steed, for her to have misgivings over serpent tongues and drifting, coy ploys, of how far he’d drench iniquity, of where’d he slink and roam amongst the veils of darkness. Would it be better for her to forget the errors of others, when Roland had not yet committed any atrocities? Any animosities? Was she placing cumbersome sins upon an individual that didn’t deserve them? And were she to trust, to place her convictions along his heart as she did everyone else’s, would they later be discarded, stomped upon, splintered and destroyed? Would she be swindled, hoodwinked and spellbound too, by charms and appeal, by temptation and fascination? Would she be laying a sliver of herself, full of loyalty, full of faith, full of certainty, upon a creature that could leave it shattered and torn?

But in the end, despite her lingering doubts, she remained the same. She brought the composition of her regal features back into the atmosphere, aloft, alight, luminescent in the spring and song of queries and confusion. Her smile filtered through the haze of tension, the twisting, burning glimpse of other things, of dangers, of perils, of hazardous whims that could collect and devastate. Because of hope, she allowed herself to break between the void of uncertainty, to flush away the clouds of despair and help bestow another creature to its desired path. Her words weaved, laced and intertwined into serenity and tranquility, even as her essence, her ethereal entity, dabbled in uncertainty. “I trust you.” And the unsaid, unspoken, muted glimpse of her warm eyes bestowed something else altogether upon Roland, a sinuous plea that filtered through honey and ambrosia: please don’t fail me.