Adrift in the elation, euphoria, of another companion found again, like the whispers, the croons, the delight of softened petals or newly, ripened snow, bolstered, shuffled, her away from any frustrations, any vexations, she may have conjured in the darkening days of past, uncoiling seasons. The ancient ruin of his smile, as if he was still unsure of how to wear one, that it remained ill-fitting instead of the resolute juncture she saw across his lips, elongated her own angles and mouth, a widening smile, a chime of bells, a hum, a hymn, of delight and regard. If she were to compose more songs to fasten this instant into polished lacquer or sweet, honeyed enamel, it would kindle ambrosia and fuel further ditties and arias, strains and ballads, to the well-wishes, the captivation, the enchantment, of long-lost friends. The warm, brilliant, tender candor of her eyes sought to provide answers to unspoken riddles (was he hurt, maimed, spoiled or blighted by his latest traversing days, ambling or shuffling with a limp, marked and blemished by the dangers, the perils, of his measured, calculated feuds?), to examine and investigate with her keen, healer’s gaze – but one more pervaded the land, and her scrutiny only landed upon his left side before falling away to address the spotted dame. Recognition dawned along the face and features of the fellow femme, amidst a throng during herd gatherings, a curious, tilted head and the gentle swell of a grin – Lena’s remained, unabashed, poised, strong, enduring and genuine. Dulcet, harmonious, mellifluous and incandescent, she strived and pursued the rich, lyrical presence of her tunes, floating and pleasant, seeking to convene more and more friends amongst her brethren. “Greetings, I’m Lena. Who are you and your lovely companion?” She tipped and dipped her own head in swaying intrigue, and Imogen countered the polite measure with a sway of her tails, a chirp towards the other bonded, antlered and intriguing on many other levels.

But then the soldier, the warrior, found his own queries marked for the sylph, and she dragged her attention away from the deer-like creature and back upon the hold of Deodat. How has life been treating you? A question loaded with more answers then she could bear to muster – to what end did she pursue the burden of response? The nymph had no inclination to wander down the primrose paths she’d courted already, violent, askew regions that left her heart far more burdened than the simple smile suggested, that mustered and coiled, stabbed and perforated in the once glorious portions and partitions of her heart. Could she regard her shame again, leave it mustered and open, festering and withering, decaying and spreading across the chords and chains of her ethereal soul, once painted, once stroked and caressed and brushed with the glory, the perseverance, of a gentle, stalwart sprite? Would she be forced to lie, to swindle and deceive her way out of the darkening chambers, or merely lay amongst specious corridors, hope he didn’t seek to discover all the shameful layers of her broken hallelujahs? Her stare pinpointed to the rime floor for a few instances, contemplating how to deliver her response, until it’d been packaged, neat and tidy, embellished with bows and lace, in another saccharine grin and soothing voice. “I am well. How are you faring?” In truth, she wanted to know how he’d been weathering the world outside their icicle doors and glacial walls, if he missed the frozen terrain and the high, lofting peaks, the frosty valleys and chilling winds, the wild, vast dominion and domain. But his other question ensnared her attentions back towards the wounds left upon her moralities, and she managed to conquer the hold in her throat with ambience, light and airy, begging him not to implore further, into the regions she’d touched and scalded. “We held invasions upon the Edge and Throat while you were gone – they had stolen portions of D’art’s family and threatened for more – but both were unsuccessful.” Though she’d kindled her own triumph, it had been meaningless, arduous and far from glorious; the feelings and sentiments rendered along the heat and rancors of violence were disturbing phantoms slithering and crawling amongst her mind. A suitable pause, a hastening of breath, a shoving of demons below the surface, was immersed into the fray before she caught more intrigues, distracted with information. “We’ve also had a change of leads, Deimos as Lord and Illynx as Lady.” Her gaze drifted back to the painted scholar, allowing her to answer any portions left undiscovered, and hoping the conversation didn’t stray over any more failures, any more nuances of foundering, defeated, collapsed frailties.