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

For once, her exuberance, euphoria, is not wasted.

Lena was restored in that sacred juncture of play, rescued, saved, from the plague of nerves, judgment, and the worries that she’d somehow vexed, irritated and nettled for the last time, dismissed and dismayed. She’s allowed the graceful swing of vivacity, the singsong plaiting of elan, the shifting kisses of passion and fervor. The trebles of youth, glowing, radiant offerings of ebullience prospered from her vivacious spirit awakened into mellifluous splendor, the grandeur of her gifts finally not deemed deluded, rancorous or deplorable; the tender nuances of her beating, resplendent heart not beaten into the ground, destroyed. She shed the dim, withering listlessness and idle restraint, blooming in the archaic movements of joy, glee and rapture, spreading her warm, tender petals to the sun’s molten air and breathing felicity, a possession of freedom, joie de vivre in the serene flesh of her glowing abandon. From the torn, scarred air she garnered ardent motions, from the humid, stifling winds she gathered a delightful luster, the rich intoxication of amusement, mirth, eternal, everlasting jubilee. Even if she were never allotted these moments of peace again, with a warrioress and king nimbly courting the lofting halls of ice, slush and brine, nuanced a liberation of all worries and tribulations, she would never forget the segments of the opportunity. Set to the fires of vigor, she was independent of crushing heartache, of withering minuets and sullied tones, alive, animated and enthralled. She knew how to play, she knew how to dance, and she knew how to brave the coated toils of a worried soul, how to transfix, how to allure, how to captivate – her smile blossomed in the fervor touch of revelry. Her grin grew in the laughter of the King, the tell-tale smirk of the mercenary.

She watched, a short snippet of time, as Korra launched her own arsenal of melting sustenance, laughed, giggled and cajoled when the antlered beast met her mark. Pressing her limbs into the cool grace again, she finessed the dissolving ground with benevolent elegance, conjuring another plan. Narrowing her gaze and twisting her head towards her chosen victim, she inched closer to the Amazon, slowly, stealthily, made of springs and hushed motions. When she’d finally acquired enough nearness, she lowered her dial again, brushed her horn against a bitter portion of snow and built against its layers, churning the slush into a longing pile. Satisfied, eyeing the femme and Mauja as he sprang into action, she waited until the mare would be distracted from the sovereign’s arsenal; then laid her own siege. She swept the black, twisted horn against her mound of slush and garnered the haste of her movements – swiftly, she changed directions and attempted another assault of the same upon the monarch.