Some laments, hymns and requiems subjected them all to the torrents of darkness, the sweeping, glittering gallows of shadows and inky fixtures. They were not feathery conjectures, not streamlined honey, not sanguine serenades from silken silhouettes, but the daunting shades and shivers of a turbulent world. Fostered by grief, by hopelessness, by the sinking, tremulous decay of a heart that had long lost its mercy, the wounded, the bleak, the miserable traversed the world as woebegone art – when melancholy ceased, there was only the spiral of withering infamy to remember their decline into despair. They all suffered in their own perilous way, clattering amongst the runes and ruins of their twisted, distorted souls, seeking what life had to offer until what had been bestowed was taken back and they were then only given their true test of character; how to survive when all had been lost. She’d watched the earth bind blood into chaotic bedlam, she’d witnessed the tides roll into crusades and campaigns, she’d heard the outcries of dirges sprung from forlorn lips, she’d listened as echoes of the ruthless pierced, lacerated and destroyed the nuances and sentiments they’d come to cherish, and she’d fought to have them saved until they perished in the idle winds and rain. Portions of her had eroded and become messy, disturbing little rancorous buds, and when she’d held them up to the light they refused to bloom, forever encased in the wilted state of her harmony. They were cunning barbs and nettles, flourishing thorns that poked and prodded in the dangerously spun moments of silence, when even the mute glow of stars couldn’t hold onto snippets of tranquility, blossoming in the distress of inadequacy. Perhaps that was why she lingered along the archways and passages of ice, in the glade of glacial secrets and frigid, furtive chimes, where the mysteries did not echo back, where disappointments were not layered and lacquered at every turn, why she danced with a stranger instead of fixing her smile to the valleys and hills. In these chasms, she was not hopeless, in her spins and twirls, she was not worthless, and in the chilling courtyard of rime and stone, she was not inept, useless or inefficient.

She didn’t slow, didn’t break stride, and didn’t falter in the flow of time and space. She liked the touch of the wind upon her face, cold, crisp and clean, an unwavering force that told her to stay strong. She cherished the cool grace of snow at her hooves, daunting and challenging, a whispering fortitude that whispered to remain graceful. She lingered in the slinking promenade of twirls, left pieces of herself for someone to find in the rubble and ruin of hoof prints and elegant waltzes – junctures of self-doubt that could melt with the sun. Instead of touching upon the sentiments of powerlessness, she drifted in the waves of enigmas again, springing and sprouting with the caress of the moon, unchained, unbound, unwavering motions and movements of fairies and fey. Lena thought of the earth, the sky, and unfamiliar bits of the world that lingered near her, perhaps, just as resolute as she. He sparked more queries, more quandaries, more riddles and mystiques across the firm, determined set of her mind. Where did he come from, what did he seek, why did he cling to these same lands, herald the icy kingdom for his travels? Would he vanish before her eyes, too beautiful, too magnificent, too brilliant, and too poetic for the moon to let slip through its fingers? Where did he chisel his grace and finery (could he help her find some to erase the clouds that sparked across her eyes)? What did he encompass, alone in the wilderness, shielded by mere clouds and atmosphere? What did he hide, shambles of decay and darkness like her, or the towering might and dominion of so many others, holstered to his chest so that one day he’d be able to pierce the threats bound to his existence?

While all these thoughts swirled and swarmed around her, she voiced none. They were overwhelming, plentiful and snagging, and she feared being the bramble to catch his mane and tangle it in heathen coils. Instead, she embarked further into the intrepid stature of their minuet, listened to Imogen’s chirps and kind gestures, laughed into the breeze and hummed in the darkness. She bestowed more light and grandeur as the nocturnal reverie became a shroud around them, splendor, happiness and delightful fixtures embroidered into gallant hopes and charades. When he spoke, she caught the words and giggled again, answered with the torrent of glee postured from her lips. “Lena!” The melodic sounds ran into the wind, entwined and curled into air, warmth and rapture, a burst of music floating from the tips and strings of a harpsichord. Her head gestured to the ivory creature behind her, awakened by the harmonious cheers of freedom and bliss, watched as the kitsune took the directional shift and glided amongst them once more. The nymph turned in his bearing again, swiveled and swayed in the honeyed decibels of their drumming beats, touched rhapsody and polished it for her own use. “And yours?”