L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

Lena listened: to the wistful, tranquil silence of the glade, to the serene lilting of the brook, to the clear decibels of the former nomad’s vocals, the strange, bitter twist of a frown that landed along his lips again. Forgive him – for what? What had he done to her soul and heart that would wound it so perilously, a knife to the chest, a cutlass to the throat? She couldn’t think of anything that ignited her ire, inspired her grief, that traipsed over her body or traced, lowered, the defenses of her guard until she was naught but a forgotten speck on the horizon. She had been victim to far worse crimes than argument, refusal or leading a tired brute’s frame to salvation, and could truly only smile at his guilty tones, widening into a ardent grin that sang of acceptance, affability, and the quiet, layered segments of their prior meeting. He would have to commit ungodly atrocities to ensure her loathing, contempt and abhorrence, and she didn’t think he would expose such terror to the wavering hills or her calm, composed stature. “Already done." The exuberant chirrup sprang from her throat like a bubbled coil, loosening, unwinding, the flagrant rancor of his fractious complexion – he was already seen beyond the scope of nomadic intertwining and exhausted conjectures. She still believed in the pleasant bloom of his strength, the hushed barricades, the murmured fortifications of his beleaguered entity; he would never have to posture his prowess to her; it had been visible for some time. It was settled in his bones, in his veins, in his muscles, undemanding, but a force that the swan, the nymph, the carillon, could witness in the sweeping tides and ides of the afternoon’s repose.

Then he drank, relaxing into the foray of wounded limbs and boughs, the calamity that was borne of the season and their own visit by a hostile immortal, and she breathed a soft murmur of contentment that he wasn’t displeased by its appearance. She believed his words, the token bards of impressive regality, and imagined the spun spidersilk lingering from branch to branch, glistening, curling leaves that whispered sweet tidings, the lilting harks of birds as they glided through restless canopies. But he polished his words further, invoking the cordial topic of strength again, how their world had mustered it against the scenic siege, and she smiled again, swiveled her dainty head back towards him again. Hastened by a sweet laugh, she winked, nudging her previous impressions forward. “Ah. So you see how you fit." Wouldn’t your resilience prosper amongst these runes too? Before she could tease him further, the shadows exposed a familiar monarch, the glacial King of their now molten palisade. She grinned all the while, an almost eternal glimpse of her candor and warmth, bidding him a solidified greeting with a dip of her crown and the soft slide of her muzzle against his passing, spotted nape. Otherwise, she was postured into silence, slipping into the muted haze of waiting and watching.