To be reassured by Deodat was an interesting notion, and she stoked it in her heart for future reference, saved and preserved in the nuances of devotion and beloved benedictions, next to her wishes, dreams and philosophies. The Nurse attempted to return his gesture, selfless and altruistic as always, extending her soft maw with its earnest, rekindled smile, with its tender deliverance and assuaging fineries, towards his painted shoulder, the mountainous, cumbersome pledge and guarantee of his safety, of her foolishness, of their companionship settled once more. A weight left her chest, heavy and unsettled, bracken, thorned and barbed, drifting back into a siege of roses instead of their pricking decibels, of laurels and buds amongst crooning blossoms. Her voice, retaining corporeal and harmonious balance through the mystifying haze of confusion, befuddlement and restless enterprises, wove its incandescent soul along the serenaded wake. “Perhaps you’re right. Thank you.” She winked, nudged him playfully across his strong neck, bantered in the cooling depths. “You must tell me if I ever do falter, however. I need to set my mistakes to rights.” For all her well-meaning gestures, for all her determined, persevering threads, for all the knots she managed to unravel and untangle, she stumbled along the way, wore over paths that should’ve never been crossed, traversed or found, embarked upon primroses and was lacerated for her fallacies. Even now, when she yearned to discover what the loyal soldier had encountered amongst his wavering, wayfaring journeys, what he saw, what he envisioned, what urged him back towards their icy realm and not the many others worlds extended before him – she asked none, learning from the ages and sage of secrets, of furtive intrigues and vile, cursed curiosities, and thanked him for not pondering deeper into her own shortcomings. Perhaps all that mattered was his essence remained tied to their frozen apertures, to their wild, dominating mountains, to their glacial regions set into stone, into ice, into beautiful sculptures of enigmas and paradigms, rustling over his shoulders and claiming another for their obscurities. The songbird and kitsune dug no further, with Imogen skittering along the depths of frost and rime, and the nymph tending to her grins and welcoming signs, beckoning his stalwart light to stay in their fire, in their diligence, in their steadfast hold. Honeyed, ambrosia eyes strove to meet his, yearning to ensure his restoration into their rime hills was embraced, was cherished, was revered, providing another sweet smile to combine with the melody lacquered through her song. “I’m glad you returned.” Whatever ignited the ardor, the passion, of his recurrence, she hoped he’d always hold a steady grasp upon it, and refuse to flee back into the otherworldly denizens again.