Broken rhapsodies, chipped piano keys, shattered, severed crescendos and harmonies, strange, altered stanzas, from comfortable melodies to lamenting dirges, awakened by the slightest mishaps. Lena inwardly flinched at the bramble of Kiro’s words, perhaps caustic, perhaps callous, perhaps maligned and coarse over her memories and mishaps – maybe she was lost again, traveling with nothing in her grasp but worn whimsies and frail fancies. Her pursuits were always measured in the same frame, perseverance, might, strength in the foundation of her movements, motions, and sentiments, gliding through the wintry halls, foreign corridors, eagerly anticipating a method to raise her herd to power. Was there something else she should be searching for, an aim, a goal, another purpose besides the rising dominion of her chilled empire? At his harsh invocation, stop apologizing, she looked away, to the shadows painting the darkness across the horizon, to the meadow floor dotted in miniscule plumes, to the edge of the earth scattered from the roaming mist. Rough, brash ambience and resonance coated her ears, and if she closed her eyes, she could mold his voice to images of her father, grating, belligerent, or to her mother’s, unhinged and disturbed. Instead, the nymph’s features dipped into a frown, lips molding downward, brow furrowed in distorted thoughts, pondering over the odd occurrences, barely registering his distorted grin, his reaching out towards her frame. Had she truly fumbled somehow, chasing away the flying, nocturnal spirit with niceties? What words altered the course of their conversations, actions, and appearances? Was it her presence, too offensive, too inviting? Or was it as Kiro stated, not her fault, but the mere snippets of awkwardness, burdened from the dampening ethos of the atmosphere? How could she repair the damaged contents, when she remained unsure and hesitant?

The fairy managed an attempt, as Imogen nosed her way towards Fawkes’s welcoming gestures, allowing the warmth of her gaze to follow the two, tender, compassionate, kind and altruistic all over again, hoping the depths of her generosity and amiability would somehow pervade the world’s munitions. To Fawkes, with his gentle, blue aura, and then to Kiro, where they adjusted quickly to stark surprise, apprehension, then subtle tranquility; she’d been witness to his swift changes before, from dancing across a soil stage, to cutting, abrasive phrases, clipped, raw and scathing, bitter acid rasping from a snake’s tongue. Lena studied the depths of his sudden persecution, watching as hatred seethed and rippled through his eyes, a smoldering, searing flame of wrath mixed with somber acceptance. Instead of drowning herself in the misery of contemplation again, in pondering whether she was to take fault for this circumstance too, she stepped forward as he backed further into the midnight veil. She followed Kiro’s gaze to the moon, shining, brilliant, gleaming with its luminous prowess, and while she was glad for its light, for its beaming opulence, he seemed to shiver, disintegrate, stunned and distressed by its magnificence. The cerulean stag’s voice ghosted over the boundary, and she tore herself away from Kiro’s condition for only the lightest bout of words, idle, foreign, as curious as he. “Not I. But I’m not aware of his situation…” The Nurse trailed off, because she truly didn’t understand the reasons behind his fear, his wrath, his ire and apprehension towards the celestial body. Did she ail him in some way, injure, harm, wreak havoc upon his senses? Did she conjure writhing, grinding pain on his figure? True to form and nature, she wished to aid in his anxiety, to fend off the barbs and nettles attacking, assaulting, besieging his body, and regained her movements, elegantly stole away the light of the moon, and became a tower in front of its shining spectacle as he cowered from its heavenly essence. Amongst the twisting, confusing elements, she prospered the entity of her benedictions, extending them like harpsichord strings, invoking enchantments, protection, and sanctuary. Her cranium converted to a regal statue, ignited by the incandescent luster, a rich, patient, gentle, unruffled and composed song floating from her lips. “Kiro, how can we help you?”