The songbird traced the layers of sun sketching the courtyards, the corridors, the hallways, the rising peaks remembered the sanctuary of her beloved kingdom, why she devoted each credence, each conviction, upon its dangerous pinnacles, across its sacred, glacial plain. The hymns of yesterday were haunting, malicious, callous dirges and requiems, and she forced away the sibilations, the discord of their sinister symphonies with the echoing belles of her own carols, ambrosial, coquette arias kindling within vivid hums. She molded and sculpted the ardent whispers, the beneficent murmurs and mellifluous croons into Elysium, begged for serenity, pleaded for tranquility, pushed and pulled against destructive seams until they’d become a blessed sanctum again – not a threshold of war, not a palace of bloodshed. Pouring from her essence, pervading her spirit, her nature, her vitality, were the crisp, airy, ethereal conjectures of passionate paintings, preludes to all the beckoning, virtuous benedictions lost in the folds of tribulations, shades and veils of trials, vile, vulnerable crusades and campaigns. Lena aimed to restore, to mend, to soothe and assuage with silken compassions, honeyed, sanguine delicacies, strength in the persevering whims of a fanciful dreamer, cajoling utopian, whimsical, flighty caresses. She surrounded the world in rhapsody, consonance, harmonies and raptures meant to erase the blunt edges of a wounded empire, of a bleeding, nefarious, twisted monarchy, dauntlessly stroking the serrated rims with blissful blessings, enchanting, beguiling, alluring. Her newest dance, removing the trace of heathenous waltzes, where she’d aimed to crush limbs, where she’d sought to maul, maim and distort, breathing in the deliverance of lingering spring air, forgetting sin, forgoing iniquity for the chance of intertwining grace, for the opportunity of seraphic indulgences once more. Dawn and delight, dipping over the length of her healed frame, a pirouette extended, embellished, mystical choreography created from hope, from confidences and assurances, the only hallowed bits left of her blooming floret; petals softened, ripped, torn, reassembled for her revered dynasty, lissome candor awakened again and again for the noble, beatific ministrations of her brushstrokes, of her warmth, of her dedication when the kingdom seemed only too eager to sully, disregard, and ignore it. But she serenaded, trilled and chanted in the ecstasy of the sun, flourished minuets, sprang, willowy, limber, lissome and whole, spectral, corporeal ethereality.

She sailed past the lake, Imogen at her heels, until they were a blend and blur of bright hues, blossoms in the illuminated glade, salvation, acceptance and affability sculpted into sweet, ambrosial tidings, gifts for the resilient, for the restless. Dainty, laughing, fixating on the rise and fall of the peaks and valleys, of the danger beneath its inveigling pinnacles, driving the beating onslaught of all her faults, all her flaws, beneath the rhythm of her hooves, under the nymph waltzes, within her wild, incandescent carillons. Not a seraph, not an angel, but a sprite, fairy, fey, caught in the plaiting of elan, the shifting, resplendent chords of her heart, spreading her joie de vivre in her glowing, brilliant abandon. Peace, for just a moment, repose, for mere seconds, filtered across her features, garnered ardent, alluring animations and enthrallments, coaxing the livelihood of liberation into the affability of her cordial vigor, captivated by the everlasting strength of her nation; for in some way, they would always endure.

Her eyes swept the lands, and her motions only ceased in their revelry, in their fervor, when the gaze grasped hold of a grullo youth, determined, resolute, upon plunging down the length of a mountainside – Imogen chirped, unwinding worry and restraint as Lena’s felicity quickly subsided, concern crossing over her gentle face, everlasting jubilee cast a stone’s length away. She advanced swiftly, only to halt again when he claimed the fertile grounds again, no longer plummeting to doom, to devastation, to ruin. Seemingly effortless, blending into rock, crag and stone, and the songbird lifted her crown to stare at the crests and summits, marveled at beauty, at grandeur, at splendor and treachery. One slip could have spelled disaster, and one descent had proclaimed him master of massifs. Lost in animation, she drummed mirth back into her eyes, across her heart, advanced with the thriving grin, enigmatic naiad, mystical, spirited sylph, belonging to the elements he’d plundered. The soft chords of her voice flowed in meandering prose and poise, composed, calm, stalwart and benevolent, peeling back the layers of whimsical bards and euphonious contortions. “Impressive!” She laughed, wove the music in her opulence, and Imogen followed at her feet, crooning absolution in the daunting hymns and hums of their paradise. “I’m Lena. Who are you?”

“Sometimes the more foolish the action, the more impressive the result.” Her words slipped out from beyond the moors drenched in old blood, from the morasses and warrens tangled in the deep concaves of enigmatic twists and turns, from the high-rising peaks and imminent valleys that crushed or embraced. How many moments could have been strangled, smothered, unbidden and remorseful, without their disregard for safety, without their burdening need for sanctuary, without their audacious, bold valor shrouding the world in its anarchy? Would the monsters have won, smashing, unraveling, massacring and devouring the masses, had their swords and shields not vanquished the enemy with their imprudent gestures, their wild, chaotic gathering? Or did her vocals, her musing, play true to more recent occasions, as one by one, the earnest, the stalwart, the staunch, fell to the abyss and labyrinth on the Edge? Potential for ruin, for absolution, destroyed and devastated in the crumbling apertures, in the colliding oubliettes, in the earthy dungeons of mist and prologue, souls still left wilting in the dust and soil. The seraph attempted to push beyond the boundaries of their failures, of the coiled machinations sundered and untangled, of webs catching their nimble footsteps, of shadows plaguing and rasping against their senses, of her selfish acts nearly fettering away the mellifluous tints of her soul, the harmonious lilt of her spirit. She’d seen the capacity, the mastery, of her wickedness, of her savagery, of her barbarity and wrath, and had no urge to revisit it. Instead, the songbird clung to the notion of distraction, to dance in the cavalcades of serenity, to restore repose, to rejuvenate and revitalize the icicle altars and glacial pedestals. To slide sonnets into sinister invocations, to compose absolution in callous condemnation, to rewrite the ebb and flow of her faults and flaws, to caress their foibles, their errs, combine the length of her composure into steadier strengths.

The fairy tilted her crown to study the youth further, a lad of a different world, a different language – she found her ears, her mind, captivated and entranced by the cadence and intonation of his voice, a unique, ethereal blend of phrases she’d never heard. Perhaps the inflection and pulse was beyond her comprehension, lofty, superior, to the stanzas and lyrics she’d ever orchestrated. Imogen followed suit in a parade of chirps and twitters, prancing lightly towards this Carnesîr, with all his beauty, all his knowledge, combined into a soul seeking so many things, dabbling close to his hooves, then skirting back in an ebullient display of former daring and mettle. Lena’s smile, unfailing, eternally blazing and luminescent, continued to elegantly confine her sorrows, her melancholies, tracing lightly into the scope of the singsong air. Her melodies and harmonies followed suit, expressing her curiosity, her desire for understanding and cognition, grasping amiability with the members of her world, her kingdom, the empire that delivered heartache and refuge in so many sweeping, chilling gestures. “A pleasure, Carnesîr. What do you do for the Basin?” She paused for a moment, reflected on all the passions she encompassed for the icy pinnacles, the unwavering fortitudes, and if it was ever enough. “I’m a Nurse.” The nymph stated naught about the sieges, the assaults, she’d helped incite, incise, lacerate and condemn, the burning feeling of regret, remorse, for being incapable of doing anymore, and the odd, rueful sentiments after each accomplishment, as if she lost a bit of herself to cruelty, to disregard, to ignorance and shackles.

The nymph’s heart was full of secrets, brimming, adverse weeds, sprouts and saplings twisting and turning for daylight, seeking absolution for each wicked stem, for every satin, dewy petal, for the bloom, the blossoming, of their strife and anguish. They never tumbled from her mouth, never pierced the broken chords of light, never shattered or transpired into the air, stored and locked away into the shambled collection of her wonder, of her enigma, of her ethereal bliss and composure. So many others climbed a vast collection, a wandering paradise of runes, specious mysteries and enshrined fortifications, and because she shared slivers and fragments of past armaments, of clandestine cloaks and daggers, of reveries splintered and wayfaring, of ghosts and wraiths and clattering, webbed invocations, she queried for little. She worried, pondered and gathered to assuage, to soothe, to mend, but not to pry, not to shame, not to humiliate, caressing with amiable strands, stroking with affable melodies and tender embraces of generosity and beneficence. If this meant that she’d be forgotten in their world of debauchery, treachery and danger, that she’d be cast aside in the weary trenches and gallows, if her soul, her memory, became lost to the trenchant eaves and the scarring corridors, then perhaps, her gifts, her bestowals and offerings would be remembered in the icy apertures, in the glacial walls, in the high-rising peaks. Lena gave benevolent, refined pieces of her essence, woven threads of her grandeur, opulence, dedication and musing, to the earth she strode on; impassioned dances to Thresholds, crooning decibels to heal and nurture the despairing, ardent, awakening hope in the forlorn and desolate. If she was not to be recalled in the future, then perhaps her nameless fixture would be a solidified accompaniment to the stars, to the constellations, to the rime and icicles, fervor, ardor, vigor, enthusiasm and ebullience. Maybe her hymns and hums would alight to the wavering bird songs, exist in their sonnets, in their stanzas and lyrics, blend into their harpsichord raptures and fly gallantly into the winds’ ruffian, stalwart pursuits, pixie, jovial, fairy whims and fey capriciousness. Or, she too, like so many others, could falter to the loam as mere dust and decay, another passing spirit embarking on a journey to heaven’s end, disregarded, giving naught but the incredulous distinction of faltering, flickering aspirations and ambitions.

The youth stated he was a Scholar, gifted with the realm of knowledge, with seeking out the rim of the sovereignty, with blessing the atmosphere with his predilections and predictions, piecing together the ghosts of their past and the legends of their future. The sylph’s eyes, honeyed, saccharine, ambrosial, wavered upon his gaze, wondered about the fortitude of his skill, of his talents, if he can bravely traverse over the unknown, if the pain yielding in his stare, the strange anguish, torment and misery colliding over the length of his features should cause her to query, to assuage, to soothe. Who does he fear for? Himself? Their brethren, the locked away souls seeking absolution in the rotting decadence of war? For her, a creature stoked and ignited for her kin, despite every nuance, every serene, tranquil portion of her being driving her to cease, to desist, so she didn’t become another savage face, another nefarious creature, another emboldened, audacious fiend? Her smile faded, replaced by the incorporeal line of lost fixtures and diabolical mayhem, calm, unruffled, unperturbed, but upon the inside, clamoring for a way out, for a discussion and discourse beyond the measure of these insightful means. She held no desire to relive her faults and flaws, no puncturing, wild deliberation to hark back the brutal charges, the satanic deeds, the fumbling maelstroms, resulting in nothing, nothing, nothing. No brethren returned, no triumph claimed, and only the clattering barbarity of her treachery, of her capacity for violence, threatening to overwhelm the essence, the form, she’d worked so hard to achieve. For a moment, she flinched and looked away, incapable of glancing at his wayward soul, of his grasping, toying words, at his notion of seeking answers from her. Would he ask what she’d done, or would he allow her to escape, so she wouldn’t have to face the untamed portions of her pierced soul? She only inclined her words to the mountains, dabbled them in the truth, in the veracity and verity of their efforts, of why she’d clambered into her former home and punctured the misty edges, stole mellifluous chimes from the wind to disguise her wounded spirit. “The World’s Edge stole some of our children and their mother.” She remembered their names, Sacre, Roux, Azucar, and some, their faces, Kou, ivory, strong, and dedicated, christened and blessed their heralds even if she could not see or trace their existence. A weak smile blossomed across her lips as she wavered for a moment, touched her eyes upon his terror and forlorn heart, conveyed the despondent answer to their failed campaigns. “We were unsuccessful in getting them back.”

Lena knew villainy, buried deep in the recesses of her heart and bloodline, watched and witness the glory of immorality glimmer and flicker against the dark horizon, attempted to erase it from her luminescent vessel, then felt it crawl like chains, like shackles, over and over into her chest, into her soul, until it remained, intertwined, sinuous, unrelenting. His words renewed them, the sense of savagery, the barbarous incantations, the selfish, merciless enticements and minatory splendor, inciting and incising for moments of raw, puncturing clarity, for seizing barbs and plucking out their thorns, for clutching and grasping upon something they needed, something they desired, falling from their avaricious palms. Time and time again she’d drawn bits and pieces of hallelujahs, of grateful arias and Ave Marias, of lyrics and rhapsodies to soothe, to assuage, and there would be bliss for snippets, for pieces, for fragments and slivers, and they too were forgotten in the midst of chaos, in the murky doldrums of bedlam, in the hedonistic fervor of wicked, unholy rapacity, dissonance shattering humility and grandeur. And she’d stood upon the threshold over and over, waiting, hoping the machinations and cruelty would end, would give way, would cascade and falter, and when they didn’t, she took up her arms, joined with her flimsy shield and her molten essence. The might and wish of the herd, of the empire, of the kingdom, was more than the aspirations of one fairy’s enchantments, and she’d allowed her honors plucked, her divinities thrown, moralities sundered, for their chance at triumph. When it didn’t bellow from the reverent traces of their warfare, when it didn’t echo from the chasms of their abominations, when it didn’t peel away from the stars and invoke their valorous pedestals, there was naught left for her to surmise. What was fey, what was ethereal, what was elemental and airy, sumptuous and delicate, elegant and refined, were the torn shards of her masquerade, floating about her feet, collected reveries not yet sullied, dreams unrealized, unfulfilled, little, lost, lithe coquette quotations and softened, dulcet petals striving for a future she couldn’t predict or imagine.

She saw the crisp, ashen forest of the Edge, the first image of her home as she was brought from the Threshold, where smoke and embers collided with the remnants of a precious glade, she remembered the gilded form of Aurelius, the icy pinnacles of Mauja, the watery, languid depths of Huyana, and the bratty conjectures of Sno. She recalled their plight as Mirage and her outcasts, her allies, draconic, eager, invaded their cliffs, pushed them aside and called them their own – and she could envision all the cruelties stacking up, one by one, as they struggled to topple one another. The winter amongst the Arches, malicious and chilling, sinister and cold, survival bent on determination, tangling with the undaunted, and then the Gods suddenly granting them the strangest of mercies, showing them the Basin, bestowing them a newfound sovereignty. Then the unknown, the plaguing viciousness and callousness, sins fostered in a timeless circle, cloaks and daggers, erupting and festering, bubbling and brewing, until right and wrong were mere jurisdictions and creations meant for either side to bear. Lena knew better than to commit her side to innocence – to scale the world in black and white, for she joined them in their turbulent affairs, permitted her soul to be monstrous, thieving, unrelenting. Even she could be a part of licentiousness, and the notion still stirred up the rancorous edge of her self-doubt, of her self-loathing.

Her eyes stirred and strayed from the wintry peaks and the gallant fortifications, suddenly restless, entombed in all of her previous shackles, awakened and unleashed by the vestal powers and prompts of the Scholar. She turned back towards him as a beacon of tranquility and serenity, dabbling truth when all she yearned to do was turn away from it, forget her portions of the villainous story, wash away her sins. The smile, saddened and depleted, maintained its sanguine possibilities, its harmonious splendor, so that some portion of her ethereal presence still remained. “I’m afraid that none of us are innocent.” She breathed, started a mellifluous hum, pervading the air with a soft, rising beat, struggling to impart the mending notions of song, of dance, of rapture and blessings, convictions and strength, to restore the restless ramparts of his twisting form, to render her calm, reposed. “The Edge was once our home, but necessity for a land brought Mirage and her band, the Qian, to invade.” And like mere pawns and runes, they’d stumbled and faltered, labored and lost. It hadn’t been the last, because for all the transgressions they’d committed, all the quivering, quavering strides they’d invoked, somehow, someway, they’d been incapable of finding solution and results in crusades and campaigns. “We failed to keep our terrain, and spent a winter as pariahs along the Steppe and Arch, until the God of Time granted us the Basin.” Lena shook her head once, pulled the melody back inside herself, admitted the specious iniquities of this ravenous paradise. “We accomplished heinous crimes, and the cycle continued.” Ignorance, perhaps, for the bestial shades of anarchy deriving a resolution, culminating in their recent abominations. She’d won her part, and held no victory in her heart for the moments of scarce victory. The songbird withered into silence amongst her discourse, and Imogen followed suit, until they seemed to be softened portals amongst the rime, more victims to the age and decay of war.

Like shared conspirators in the mist and woods, she told of all the weary tides she’d seen (how many times, she wondered, how she been more fatigued and drained than elated and ebullient), and he still grasped and grabbed for more. Each memory was a fallen petal, coasting and ghosting across the horizon, never forgotten, but tarnished, crumpled, woven entanglements of a yesteryear she was forced to recall – and now, the vision of the battlefield, the pieces and pawns, the runes and rooks, of all their ferocious blades, of all their esteemed harbingers, formulated, came to place in her eyes. Beyond her sight lay the ruins of their cliffs and waves breaking over worn rocks, shambles of shoal and desolation, beauty and grandeur, and she focused upon the query, saw the violent contortions of their hallowed, hollowed machinations. A dragon mare, mythical and damning, leading her clan of wandering, wayfaring souls, at once gilded and breathing fire, and in some moments, an ebony banner, leading her warriors to victory and conquest over their icicle sovereign and fellow patriots. Her composure became fit for the occasion, relaxed, poised for more stories as they flowed over her lips, like laureate dreams and whimsical sonnets, nightmares of the past returning to fruition in the depths of a crooning bird. “Sometimes she resembles a golden dragon, and other times, a black mare.” She smiled, awaited the imminent confusion between the two – for what if he wasn’t familiar with magic, not illuminated by enchantments (did he realize the invocations of her own deliverance and attributes?). The sylph continued to hum beneath the opulence of the icy empire, and Imogen persisted in the same stead, twirling to each burdening song lifted from warm spirits and harsh recollections, conjuring more spells to answer constant queries. “The Dragon’s Throat, their allies, assisted in the invasion.” We stood no chance - numbers strangled their efforts, their fortitudes, and still they waged on, fires and embers coiling along dancing flames, desperate for a kingdom they couldn’t salvage.

The last question perhaps sieged and smoldered the most, because she no longer knew his whereabouts, his aspirations, lost and follied to the arched damnations of time and the unknown, more labyrinthine sentiments spiraling down rabbit holes. All the undying loyalties, all the enduring allegiance and adherence, could mean nothing without the presence of the one faithfulness stitched its seams upon. He’d led them amongst winter, around defeat, amongst rancor, through mirrors and reflections, through warfare and assaults, and now, he barely whispered amongst the tangled armaments of confusion and turmoil. Her eyes fell to the ground, her voice lowered to a saddened, somber tune, and she relinquished the name of their former monarch, as if the drumming of his name may herald him back, may warrant him to haunt their wings once more (and if she summoned his calling across her mouth, could she do the same for all the others disappeared into the abyss?) “We were led by Mauja the Frostheart.”