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

The descent of madness: the mania dissipates as quickly as it had arrived, snatching at the air then fleeing into the ruins of the day. The high-pitched laughter, the contorted, twisting movements, and the withering decibels of agony before rushing, plunging, into the distance; unsettling remnants of a sinuous torture. She chose not to focus on it, the disconcerting potency that trickled through her veins, that echoed in the stream of memories, that drove reminders of another world intertwined in her youthful glow. Instead, her attention turned back unto the newcomer, drifting in his own weary wake. He too had the appearance of fragility now, like the weight of earth pressed upon his soul, the chilling precipice of cumbersome interludes, the hushed depths of unsaid quandaries. What tore against him in these blinding, fleeting fragments? The hardships of the day, the torrential hysteria, or the grinding glimpse of themselves – these strange appearances of welcoming parties? She wondered and listened, in her quiet, earnest platitude, allowing his voice to drift off the seams of the forest, off the walls of the hot, scorching glade, to linger and withdraw into the copse. He continued with their dispute, lofting, lilting and charming as it was, the duel of strength and weakness. Where she saw power and might in many forms, not merely pouring from undulating muscles and vibrant sinew, but also amongst the mind, the ample machinations and calculations, the teasing tilt of charismatic quips, he seemingly did not. Perhaps this state of framework came from her childhood, where beasts had to claim something for themselves, and hers had never been supremacy, dominance or authority – her brawn came from elsewhere, deep in the flutters of her heart. But this creature could not see his own, the depths of his vigor, the prize of his convictions? She smiled again, the tug of lips pulled into wholesome, lissome grace, eyes not upon his chiseled skeleton, but aloft on the canopies, amused, content. The same voice, dabbling in muse and elegance, refinement with the touch of ethereal balance, postured from her mouth, layered, masked, lacquered in stretched seams. Sentiments that haunted of experience, infused by justified understanding. “Strength is only foolish when it goes unused.”

He persevered, in the stretch of heat and damnation, of unseen wounds and potential slights, whispers of alluring charms that beguiled but never soothed – she witnessed his smirk and bestowed her nurturing grin all the more. Were there no hard feelings then, in the press of her answers and the grating pulse of his replies? She proffered none, holding her regal court in place, gaze flickering to his, warmth and assurance, confidence where some had fallen, cracked, pierced. He spoke his name though, which reminded her of how far they had passed in this threshold without familiar greetings; she almost had to laugh, but torched the bubble of a giggle erupting in her throat. Lena tilted her head to glance at the metallic beast, giving him a chance to speak – but only silence rang. Twisting back to this Lúthien Tinúviel, she spoke once more. “You are in Helovia, a world of many lands and creatures.” But what does he want from it? What does he seek? A pause, a glimpse of a breath, before she allured again, a first attempt at inviting, extending good faith shared amongst brethren. “A pleasure, Lúthien Tinúviel. I’m Lena, from the World’s Edge. Perhaps you would be interested in joining our band of unicorns?”