Days of repose, of tranquility, died on the desperate plea clawing, scraping, tearing into the wind. Keen notes, built on anguish, carved in distress, harpooned the serene hallelujah blooming in her chest, whittled hope away from her bones. Like dying lamentations, like funeral pyre stanzas, it wailed and triumphed, conquered all harpsichord reveries from her heart, settled them into pits and pendulums, faltering stones and tumbling rubble. Through the downpour, insistent, festering symbolism, drenched and soused, intertwined and chained, the aching hymns of its martyred, broken soul, she heard her name called over and over in dying, saddened shades; howling, rampaging against the din. Fraught and screeching, belonging to one she’d mended time and time again, a cracked, frayed segment of blood princes and open wounds, bold ambitions and lingering aspirations. An absence of pride, a forlorn, fettered layer, frenzied, frantic, cloying and pushing for the last dreg of life alarmed her all the more: panic elapsed through her throat, rose into her chest, sunk into her soul. With naught else to guide her but the mauled vocals of a cracked refugee, she left the sanctuary, sanctum, haven of the caverns, intending to build her own; once more, a castle, a dynasty, of song and symphonies to ward away demise. The heavy cascades rippled through her vision, a current, a deluge, a streamlined essence of ashes and decay, mortality and morality riling the shambled nuances together. Fervent and persistent, she drove through the heavy chill, the puncturing, piercing drops of glass, mirrored agony, reflected torment, Imogen close behind to ward off the brimming weariness. Amidst the bramble, the bracken, the miserable, plaguing efforts of sudden storms and ailing patriots, her gaze sought out the emblazoned print of sienna and ivory, and wished, for once, she didn’t have to see him like this.

The ivory kitsune’s vibrant chirp over the sullen cacophony was a welcome gesture, figures found, discovered, traced in the gloom; the mending sylph swiveled her gaze to the beast flanked in ichor, rain, and despair, and sketched out one subtle, shaking breath. As she drew closer, into the fury, into the onslaught, into the terror and tribulations of another hour, Lena’s attentions fixed more rapidly upon the lines of wounds, the punctures and lacerations, the withering companion, the struggling Corporal; blackguards and Cerebrus felled. The sylph didn’t ask how he acquired, gained, the calculations of another, forever failed to pry into the ruminations and speculations of Deodat – left his hostilities for secrets, cloaks, daggers, and assembled veils – came when he needed her, smiled when he was no longer shattered. She reached towards his cheek, a soft, dulcet croon, a rush of salutations, a reckoning of presence, a faith-filled caress, ensuring conviction amidst the damnation he seemed to constantly circle or create. “Shh. All will be well.” A steady blink, removing heavy drops from her eyes, before assurances drummed their own tune. Instead of being heralded into the wild melancholies, the untamed drones of sorrow and despondency, she drank in the cool air, the rich water, and dreamed, drummed, harmonized, the rhapsody of her peaceful tones. A symphony, an orchestra, a serenade of the gentlest grandeur, enchanted and invoked clarity through the haze, through the warren, intertwining and lacing the bog and mire that had become these past, piercing moments. Incised, tempted, inveigled by hope, by salvation, by deliverance, the rush of invocations burst from her chest, gilded and reverent, plunging towards the marred warriors, first, to the staunch, stalwart canine, and when she gained another blossoming breath, to her friend of the constant afflictions, brambled, thorned, and barbed. A song of restoration, satin and silken, beauty in the chaos, in the mayhem, in the distortion of their well-meaning lives, building and brewing, adapted and scored in the midst of silence; unceasing until he asked.