The nymph moved to forget, a wandering, wayfaring Gypsy again, pushing and dancing her way through Birdsong’s vestiges, forgoing all the horrible memories pressing against her mind. Muscles and sinew, flesh, still burned, still ached, and she tried to neglect and overlook them too, but they didn’t allow her the swiveling grace, the sinuous elegance she’d concocted before the battles, before the sieges, before the stolen babes and mother were snagged from their home. Stiff, rigid, unyielding, her mind paid close attention to the darkening traces of forest racing over her lithe contortions, struggled to hold back all the frustration, all the vexations that continued clinging to her. The Threshold would be a worthy distraction, nestled in the heart of newcomers, strangers, unaware of the brimming, brewing chaos they’d avoided, sanctioned, liberated, given and offered salvation as they dabbled in ignorance. Imogen had been left behind in the Basin to heal, and even now Lena felt a huge lapse in her membrane, a connection loosened by the great expanse of earth, wind, and sky. She carried all of these persistent, unrelenting harassments along her body, across her figure, until she dared to release a breath as she stepped into the gates, attempted to transform her mending body to a waltzing reverie again, poise and refinement when all she felt was the burden of lost souls crossing over her shoulders.

The songbird searched, forced her sentiments to glide elsewhere, and she heard a tune prick against her ears. She swiveled them again, tried to capture the unknown hymn, for it was not made by fliers, but certainly a decent warble and croon straining to match the familiar arias of finches, jays. Lena thought of her songs, meant to heal, meant to assuage, offer comfort, guidance, altruism, and even in the daunting dusk, she’d managed to procure its soothing qualities. Within her, a strain, a melody, a ditty, floated and impended, coasting and ghosting in an intertwining haze, bubbling along her throat as she attempted to replicate it in a ethereal, enigmatic hum. She followed the winding road of music and sound, and only stepped from the shadows, into the brilliant moonlight, when she’d finally found the creature she’d sought. Had she not heard him, he would have been a difficult figure to spot, black, blended into the darkness, ebony and Stygian threads of woven contemplation. Her gentle, warm eyes flickered once to his scar, noted the way of all these travailing, crusading beings seemed to be segmented with brutal stories, but didn’t ask about it, didn’t question, didn’t query. Instead, she swiveled her gaze strictly to his stare, lent a blooming smile across her lips, a dulcet tone smoothly transposed from her vocals. “Hello. I’m Lena, of the Aurora Basin.” She offered the short nod of her regal cranium, respectful, intriguing, before raising it back to her former position, tilting the crown in an aura of curiosity. The soft chirps followed thereafter, staunch, stalwart, valorous, asking for naught more than a herald, a calling. “Who are you?”