L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

Welcoming: a bridge in melancholy hearts, fostered preludes joined and cajoled, prologues melted, molded, into hopeful serenades and forgotten scars. Unraveling entangled complexities, histories varnished from cruel, malicious junctures and divergences, slipping, sliding from old, twisted wounds – deviating into segments of aspirations, ambitions, longings and yearnings. Gloom abandoned, ferocity disregarded, sin scorched, burying chains of atrocity into the lament of another time, archaic denizens, recognizing the satin motions of freedom. Liberation, release, from the wear and tear of yesterday’s predicaments and sullied, broken tirades, breathing soft croons and hymns from the sanguine lips of augured nymphs. Such were her provisions and gifts, the slender, angelic bliss of laurels and roses, the bloom of a floret designated and designed for dulcet lullabies, silken movements, virtuous benedictions, honeyed promises of strength, good-will and avid faith; kindled from nothingness, rendered complete by the token convictions of a compassionate harem. She led him here, the weary traveler, for his salvation and survival, of the heart, mind, and soul – a faltering, shaken creature immersed in his own tribulations and melancholy, surrounded by a shattering despair and silent turmoil. But she’d seen it, that glimmer, that shade, of strength, buried and burrowed into the stirrings of aptitude and vigor, resting idle in the hardened features of his tired, worn face. She coveted those particles, seized and shoved them into his gaze, but he refused to see them, staring into the abyss of another light, another darkness. But she’d grinned, smiled, and swallowed the hollow feeling in her chest, because she’d been there too, in the midst of vulnerability and delicacy. But how could she show him what she’d witnessed and watched on the banks of the sweltering, sultry threshold, where gates unlocked and twisted the distorted shambles and remnants of a forlorn, ambiguous slate? Would he care? Would he refuse? Would he reject and decline? When did we become such fragile, broken things?

Even if the mood had dimmed, grown quiet in the mist of labyrinth hearts, her movements were light, airy, soft, and smooth over cinders and ash, touched by ethereal fingers, satin petals where blossoms had been long since forgotten. Her body was earth and wind again, collected and coiled like a spring’s whimsical caress, beaming silhouetted tenderness where the summer had failed to administer its final strike. Amidst her honeyed hums and his hushed, reverent silence, she searched, peered for pockets of water along the toils of cooled embers and fiendish, sun-god rays, whispering token hymns for the bulbs and boughs left to rot in the molten grave. If he wished for an explanation, she would give it to him, but for now, she settled into the rhapsody of motion, willowy, lissome grace, molding into the glade as it stretched further into another copse not yet tombed and destroyed. Warm eyes peered and searched for the refreshing touch of liquid and blades that Luthien so desperately required, listening for that bubbling existence of fresh water – ah, there, in the twisted arms of roots and divets, babbled a brook. Turning to him now, crown alight, grin anew, the dulcet croon of her voice surrounded the lush thicket, offering his need for current preservation. The rest, the search for a strength she knew he held, would come later. “There is your water."

[ooc: First Luthien, then anyone who would like to join! <3]