Lena had fought for many things in her short life: to live, to breathe, to smile, to dance, to laugh, to cherish and devote. She’d been touched, tarnished, anguished and banished, condemned and damned, consigned to the oblivion of her own weaknesses and frailties. She’d found the roots of a withering bud and brought it back to life, she’d hastened the world around her to blossom, to bloom, to flourish under the tangible strength of her piercing perseverance, of her rapturous resolution, of her stalwart determination. She’d conquered her ethereal demons, she’d chased away the sorrows of her wretchedness, of her misfortunes, and harbored the will to survive. She’d harpooned the malicious qualities in her world and stoked them in the fire, the fury of her valor, watched while they burned into nothingness. She’d been extinguished and then prospered all over again, she’d been daunted, afraid, but molded it into the finery of her unyielding grace, of her laureate aspirations, of her sanguine love, of her seraphic hope. She’d been flooded with misery, with despondency, and felt the savage contortions of its lashes beat into her body, had felt sin scorch and scar the layers of her flesh, had felt the weight of tragedy and anarchy push down on her shoulders, threaten to drive her into her self-made tomb, but she’d conquered, she’d consumed, and she’d triumphed over the laments, the dirges, the upheaval. The nymph found conviction, carved assurance, planted confidence and certainty into the soil of her soul. Once, she’d been like him, eroding her majesty, shriveling, fading, becoming the ghost of the shade, the shadows, the Stygian oils and Mephistophelean grasps, tangled into the wounds and gloom of the despair she’d been given. But where he wallowed now, in the junctures of quiet delusion, in the restless genesis of pestilence of an alluring, beguiling trance, in the fabric of an entity controlled by something else altogether – unseen, unheard, but coiled in the midst of his body, the roll of his muscles, the keen, sharp, acidic trace of his tongue, she couldn’t fathom, she couldn’t understand. Where she’d overcome, he grew darker, contorted and distorted by the strangling chords of an ancient vehemence. So how could she get him to search for the decibels, the carillons, the chimes and echoes of his serenity, of his salvation, of his liberation when he didn’t yearn for it? How could she aid him when he didn’t want to hold it himself, when he didn’t want to clench, seize and clutch the fiber of his spirit, throw it into vigor, force and might? She’d offered him a string, a cord, a strand of deliverance and redemption, yet, if he refused to take it, then her gifts wouldn’t, couldn’t, matter.

Still, she didn’t flee, didn’t run, didn’t escape from the bombardments of his anguish, of his heartache, of his anger and indignation. Too adamant, insistent, tenacious and bold, the strong-will of her tender nuances rang amongst the clamor of Imogen’s brewing growls and hisses. Her eyes, honeyed defiance and preservation, continued to trace his, never straying, never deviating, saw the cumbersome burden locked into their depths, wished to pry it out the watery violets and destroy the ruining measures. Why couldn’t he say what ailed him? Why couldn’t he break away from the warped opulence of a specious indisposition? Why wouldn’t he free himself from the chains of his locked scabbard, of his brawny oubliette, of his sunken cell? Why couldn’t he cement her words into his skull, brandish the weight of their worth, plunge his sword into the malice, the vehemence, the wicked, the depraved sentiments of his twisted world? Why did he choose to immerse himself the grandeur of his agony, instead of treasure the magnificence, resplendence, and luminosity of his majesty? The fairy wondered, inquired in the steady silence, uttered not a single trace of her curiosity because it would mean further prying, it would mean his bones would flee, it would mean that for every ounce of her determination, he’d increase his own stubbornness, leave her with the harsh formation of another soul left without her soothing embrace. But he spoke, of tempting fate again, of not wishing for the accursed hand of her wheeling and dealing, of the misfortunes already brandished upon him. What was he to do in life then, sink, destroyed, wrecked and ruined by the calculations of another? By the proclamations of an unknown malady? Why didn’t this make him want to shed the skin of its anomaly, rise and triumph, simmer in the glory of resolution instead of the desecration of his livelihood? What ceased his desires, his yearning, and allowed him to remain diminished?

Then, he challenged her again, brought forth the brawn, the grace, the affinity of her rigor, of her control, of her safe caress, entwining and enforcing the storm in his heart, the music of her composure. So, the nymph carried her sentiments once more, extended them like a heroine, enlightened by courage, experience, nerve and daring. She didn’t sing a lullaby for him, didn’t conjure the vocals of a goddess, didn’t stroke the divine, but elegantly, poised and infallible, unfailingly, forgot whimsy and derived an unspoken promise. “I would find the answer.” Her stare, so vivid, so focused on him, bestowed a sanctuary, a refuge, as the soft, intrepid, valiant phrases continued, pausing for the mere breath of the cold wind, to remind herself that she was still tied to this heady earth. “I would pry it from the depths of my affliction.” And though she didn’t ask, didn’t query, upon his scourge, upon his plague, she knew the somber edge of his ruin could be absolved, somehow, someway, if he gave himself the merest slip, the slightest chance, to tremble in the wake of his own might and will. “I would overcome it.”

His next words, softer, murmured, a quelled whisper she struggled to hold onto, scarred her more than any of the others. You know nothing of power. Was she always to be accused of ignorance, was she always to be criticized of folly, of euphoria, of incomprehension, merely because she chose not to be pervaded by the courses of blight and villainy? Was she always to be derided, scorned, because she sought the light, the dawn, the warmth of the sky instead of the sour tilt of the shade, the shadows, the darkness? Because she smiled, because she exalted compassion, benevolence and empathy, did this lead her to idiocy, did this shackle her to foolishness, the unknown, the incorporeal? Did they see naught behind her grin? Did they believe she possessed an empty cranium, full of passions, hopes and dreams, fanciful and mercurial? Lena, nymph, sylph and fairy, denied every ounce of the declaration, of the proclamation, as she had done many times before. She stepped closer now, daintily slid one petal soft dagger, hoof, dust, into the beat of the rime and frost, stirring a stern edge to her vocals, to her arduous tones. “You know nothing of me.” Her eyes bored into his own, and she wanted him to see the strength there, the wounds, the heartache, and the succession over her trials, her tribulations, to know that she held this ability, to understand she could bind it to him too. “For I understand power, all of its cruelty, and all of its greatness.” A pause, then once more, her lips delivered a dulcet requiem, a swift, satin lacing of her benedictions. “You’ll always be defined by how you wield it.” And if you choose not to, perhaps that would be the most tragic flaw – to have the ability to change your world, and being incapable of commanding it.