Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

Heart swollen and driven to soothe, mind encased in the glow, in the brilliance of enchantments simmering, smoldering, christened in the midnight oeuvre, blinding rhapsody chained to the inner sanctum of her soul, beholding sanctuary, offering shelter, consuming the harmony of the moon, the melancholy of the darkening shades of their faltered strides. Left to fend off their bruises, their upheavals, their pallid, waning complexions, taking the stars from their eyes, the glory from their steps, the beat of their power, and she fought to stave off the anguish, the torment, force the drifting misery, the wicked, wretched contortions of their failures to reaching each ethereal piece of soul. A hum, a twist, a turn, the dialing of potent melodies, choreographed art pouring against shriveling, heathen fortitudes, forgetting the shame, the anomalies of her own perplexing actions, her own dismayed resilience, her own shambled shell. Only when the final hymn dabbled across her lips did she open her eyes, returning to the constellations, to the horizon, to the skies, embedded into the heavy distortions of iron will, stalwart, staunch resolutions, heaven smoked and squandered. Overcome, overwrought, she sighed and nearly crumbled, limber legs quaking, shaking, unsteady and reeling from the alluring, beguiling veil of stitching chords, of dulcet, soft, sanguine, angelic treaties and convictions, salvation in the core of all their spirits – holding her aloft was the sheer determination, the luminous glory of her enlightened companion, the affixed perseverance languished and lacquered to her body, fervent, ardent, passionate dabblings of finessed sacrifice. Imogen stirred, acknowledging the songbird, the lady, with a feral chirp, a weary croon, before returning to another restful slumber, and Lena thought of nothing more to join her, but remained, whimsical, haggard, worn, kissed by celestial bodies, proud and glorified by the affirmation of Illynx’s wellbeing. Perhaps the only gift at her bestowal, besides smiles, besides grins, besides merriment or laughter, and the latter wasn’t welcome in these smoldered tapestries, where the canvases burned under the bewitching, idle traces and trances of loss, upheaval, insurrection and sedition, the criss-crossed formulation of plans sundered, destroyed. The fey and fairy bowed to the bestowed compliments, drank in the sight of the gilded creature rearmed, reanimated, mended and assuaged. She pressed another series of harmonious notes across her lips, parting over the length of her lips, drifting into hushed ease of former whimsy, tangled into adversity, knotted in tribulation. “Thank you. Is there anything else you require?” A fatigued beam molded across her mouth, then fell, too jaded and drained to foster long-standing jubilation. Instead, a query brewed in her throat, and she slid her gaze elsewhere, against the haunting length of shadows, for fear of instigating a harsh reaction. “What do we do now?” And where are the others, the wounded figures of this unwavering band? Where is Faelene, who fought against liberation?