Tossed amongst the dewdrops and rainy aperture, Lena listened as the ichored soldier expressed his merriment and fulfillment beyond the edges and fringes of war, scorching over brimstone and ambiguous pendulums and pitfalls, hitching towards family instead of mauling and tearing. The latter would certainly earn him fewer wounds, and she, dazzled and delighted, could only be content for his other ambitions in life. If he took to fatherhood as he did battle and sieges, perhaps the daughter, Mirabella (the name left a wonderful note in her head, like chimes, like bells, lilting and lofting), would become quite a powerful component of the Basin, head held high, thoughts swirling towards adventures, countenance filled with righteous glory and molten reverence. Though he remarked the girl could become fiery, stubborn, such was the way of their land, touched by perseverance and renewal; a representation of their existence, their presence, in the tattered, tired realms, why they continued to prosper season after season along choking, chilling, cold winds and untamed iniquity. How many times had they carved their own paths, chased after horizons and searched for their pariah potency? Their survival reigned and loomed by their persistence, their boldness, their determination; without it, they would still be crawling through the Steppe, skin and bones, despondent and barren, isolated and miserable. The nymph blinked away the memories, days of slinking between caves and mayhem, struggling to counter the engulfing waves of disappointment and the shards of hopelessness – passed on in seasons and whims of the Gods. She smiled towards him again and again, chiseling finery through the cascading haze, charting out a map of stars little Mirabella could follow. “She’d be in good company.” The world seemed to treasure hard workers, beasts of might and focus, those who could penetrate and pierce the mayhem, the chaos, the bedlam, the world threw upon them, and Lena was certain anything of Deodat’s lineage had the caliber to resist horrid temptation or plunging knives. A girl born in ice, hastened by glaciers and mountains, peaks and valleys, would know how to survive, how to contort, how to laugh. Through his wistful sighs and nearly tranquil fixtures, the sylph grinned and remained earnest in his transformation, wondered and pondered over his new occupation, presumed he’d fit a grand role in the portended schemes. She even layered her reassurance, for she trusted his strength, his fortitude, his staunch will, amongst the summer doldrums, procuring another radiant song amidst the mist and murk. “I’m sure you’ll provide her with everything she needs.”