The moments were cordial now; hope sprung and demon dashed. Away from the infidel pursuits and persecuted junctures, they were old friends again, pearled shards of reminiscence and allies, perfected in the avenues of happenstance – springs, conspiring to ensnare captured companions, well wishes and bravery reignited through rippling coils of events and paradigms. Deodat never failed to inspire her, either through his bold audacity, his cold, aloof gaze, or the hardened coils of muscle and resolution; she’d clambered and dug through adversity to heal him once, her first, clung to the bits and pieces of misfortune and malice, stung them away from the callous, ruthless pits and pendulums. Without him, perhaps she may have never found her gift, her righteous, liberating song, and the gratefulness inside her refused to fade. Each time her passion stirred symphonies or sonnets, she hoped it provided him some essence of contentment, rapture, bliss, like he’d done for her so many seasons ago. Back and forth, a tremble, a note, a keen blessing, uttered eternally through the unfailing resolve settled into her brow, into her heart, stirred and settled again and again for the painted warrior. He deserved something other than sorrow, something other than pain, and it bothered her that ultimately that’s all he ever seemed to conjure: were there no joys harbored in his being? Did he garner abrasions, clutch lacerations, and naught else? She studied him for a few seconds, sliding her warm gaze back over his frame once more, imagining a world where he, or his faithful canine, no longer suffered. But was that what he yearned for? What drove him into battle time and time again (because she knew what seized her into villainy, and it was always for her home, for her friends, for the only family she had left, desperate and wanton for their lives to remain touched by salvation)? What did he fight for when they were not at war, embarking upon invisible crusades and endless campaigns? Yet, before she could wonder any further, before she could delve into the ponderings of the shapes and anomalies of the Corporal, he answered her prior query.

A family – he’d christened and anointed, consecrated and ordained another being into the world, and the prior smile she wore grew all the more enlightened, widened, enormous, eyes unblinking and substantial. Her voice, wild and untamed through its fervent exuberance, ricocheted through the air in silly, delightful candor. “Your charm has finally left a mark!” She presumed he wouldn’t mind the lighthearted banter, because it kept away ghosts, regrets, rancor and bitterness, shoved away all the empty pockets and made way for new tomes and mythos, figures collected and represented in his honorable stead. The names floated along her mind, were captured, enticed, polished for recollection: Esther and Mirabella. She imagined some fancy, winsome mare capturing the bloody prince’s heart through appeal, allure and charisma, fastening it to her tiara, and a babe wrapped in sienna and ivory, stately and stalwart like her father, and the enchantment, the thrill, ran through her chest like a close-guarded light; reserved bliss for her friend. “How wonderful. I shall have to meet both of them.” The nymph’s grin was all the more emboldened, steps dancing and light, airy, lissome semblances through the murky rain, as if it’d never dampened her spirit. “I’m glad to hear your life is not always wounds and battles.” A light, tender laugh escaped her lips, sylph and gentle, nurtured by the fascination of Deodat’s growth and journeys. Someone had recognized him for not only his strength, but the measure of his heart, and she was all the more glad for it. With vestiges of spring, warm and incandescent, she spoke one more inquiring phrase, longing to ensure he’d found some peace, some salvation, in the world. He, like so many others, deserved it. “Do they make you happy?”