| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
07-07-2014, 08:30 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-07-2014, 10:03 PM by Larkspur.)
larkspur There's a ghost, she's wearing my face. Reality is a place of safety in a world that is far bigger, and far more complicated, than most choose to acknowledge. Solitude is falling into the comfort of predictability, the guarantee that normalcy is exactly as it appears - a condition created by consistency. Lives can be lived in charmed expectation of the inevitable. The sun rises and sets. Winter fades to spring, to summer, to fall - and with it everything else fades too. Including memories. Nothing in the living world is permanent, and the power of recollection is no exception. Piece by piece images of the past are lost to the hands of time, withering and disappearing into an endless void. So easily are these things forgotten, so easily the mind loses sight of what was once before it, until all that is left at the end of all things is the sliver of a life, replaced by the shell of a ghost.
Larkspur is a ghost.
This is no world she now exists in, but a hell. Shadows and glass surround her, smother her, until she is certain that they are her. She feels as though she is a figment, composed of suffocating smoke and fractured ice, her body lost to the elements that have become her existence. She breathes it in, heady and sharp against her lungs, now terrifyingly familiar, but no matter how much she tries to focus on the light ahead of her, it remains out of reach. It’s a distant promise of warmth that laughs are her from the frozen abyss where she is caught, a prisoner who’s sentence no longer exists in any form of certainty. Her gold eyes glow, a fire in the dark - hungry.
Has it been days? Weeks or months? Years?
She cries out, for the thousandth time, but there is no sound, only gaping, swallowing emptiness.
Her fierce, fearless nature is reduced to desperation, overrun by the growing, strangling need to escape. She clings to the remnants of before, before the darkness swallowed her whole, as if those last pieces of her previous life will somehow return her to it. So she prowls through the endless night, the infinite void, and with each step another piece of her breaks free - falling into the abyss around her.
And that’s when she sees it. Out of the smokey haze and sprawling, reaching, clawing splinters of glass, a great wall suddenly rises up before her. For the first time in what feels like a millennium, a face stares back at her out of the shadows, and her heart races briefly - until she realizes the wild creature peering back at her is herself. Not only herself, but a world that she recognizes, a world beyond this purgatory she’s been made to suffer in. She can see the mountains in the distance, so familiar - so real. Surely, after all this time, it’s only another lie…
She steps closer, the glass cracking and giving beneath her feet, accompanied by a distant hiss. She freezes, and her gut twists as the ground shifts and she stumbles to her knees - the glass like shards of ice biting into her flesh. Suddenly a single fracture splits between her fore hooves and runs the length of the floor until it meets the reflecting wall. A great rumble sounds deep in the earth beneath her, and with a deafening crack a great fissure climbs the length of the reflective surface in front of her. A scream echoes around her, but this time it is not her own.
And then she falls, and falls, and falls.
@[Random Event] @[Lena]
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Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
L E N A It was a chorus so sublime
And I started to hear it again
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Lena failed to forget, poising poignant images and tapestries throughout her mind, like stained, glassy snippets of time’s revolution, from some of the earnest droplets of friendship, bottled, a bobbing cork in a wide canopy of rivulets and oceans, joyous, wonderful, stretching beyond the delusion of yesterdays. She framed ebullient wiles amidst her glorified memories, wild, beneficent tempests stroking mellifluous storms, heralding the beatific reaches of gallant intrigues and wholesome indulgences, roaming across vast countrysides and icicle empires, from sea to mountain, from mist to shoal. She recounted the mutinous decibels of triumph and hurried, chaste victories as they chased after stars, constellations, and the rueful decadence as they spread their hearts too far apart, lost one another in the cycles of seasons, sages, ages, and days. The Mender could hasten each of their names to her mind, to her soul, to her essence until they were conjured in front of her, bits and pieces of fantasies and illuminations again and again, pledged loyalties and unfailing, undaunted, tangible beings, as if they’d never disappeared at all. From the staunch Aurelius, with his gilded lion heart, Korra, the gruff Amazon, Poppy and her springing vines, Blue Duck and his insatiable curiosity, to Larkspur and all of her incandescent strength; they remained a chiseled part of the nymph’s core, granted her wisdom in the slated sun, offered her salvation and deliverance even when there seemed to be none in her grasp. And for augured moments, as she and Imogen combed amongst the caverns, searching for glowing plants for the upcoming festival, all of their portraits polished and glimmered in her mind, strayed and drifted with her ambience. They fueled and kindled her strength, they stoked the fires in her perseverance, they swept over the stained edges of her heady doldrums and cast away her embittered sighs; so as the evening approached, moon aloft and pale, she swung about with silent, old, ghostly friends, gentle wraiths, and valorous specters. Even if they no longer waltzed across the shards of rime and glaciers, she still carried them wherever she went.
The two manifested creatures roamed amongst the grottos, Imogen chirping and singing her own lilting tune echoing and bounding off of the walls, a duo’s slow dance illuminated by the precious mushrooms gathered and glimmering – but off, somewhere in the midst of their evening venture, the bleeding peal of glass stung a cold surface. Lena raised her head from the nearest cremini, ears pricked towards the fatal, rippling sound, the crashing, the ringing, the vibrant shrieking of broken, despondent slivers and splinters. Curiosity bloomed and blossomed in the minor heralding of danger and treachery, for who cast aside vitreous forms, allowed them to split and fracture, seethe and seize the ardent frames of someone’s work? For a few moments, she feared it was the Time God’s mirror once more, the reflecting glass cracked and frayed, bent and hailed towards the ground, no deity around but the absence of his crackling spirit spilled to the floor. A questioning glance was sent towards Imogen, and the little ivory vixen responding in kind, arching her brow and prancing out of their own vault, proceeding towards the Haruspex’s looking glass, daring to tumble towards Wonderland. Lena and her friends, hushed phantoms, followed, reaching across the portal of summer twilight, along the void with calculated, precise steps. If someone awaited them in the reaches of the chamber, menacing, meticulous, she’d have an opportunity to derive defensive measures (she thought of fire, of blades, of crossed fixtures honeyed and dipped in villainy, how much she had to concentrate on her rapidly beating heart). Their heads poked within the dark cave, inquisitive but not impertinent, they didn’t deserve to glide upon a heavenly threshold and muster demands, cool, composed, delicate sways of fairy breezes and temptation. Through the hallowed gloom, she procured a soft, dulcet croon and warble, extending the questioning greeting amongst the thickened gloaming. “Hello?”
@[Random Event]
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| Helovian Ancient |
| Stallion :: Equine :: :: |
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The same mirror that had once captured and held another member of this herd had done it again. Why? The fact that the mirror had done these things was not strange, given that it was magical and of the Time God.
But why? That question lingered unanswered and itched like a scratch you just couldn't reach.
Larkspur fell, the mirror metaphorically cracking beneath her hooves until she suddenly just was there. The glass, hard surface of the mirror turned to liquid, letting her slide out so smoothly and calmly that it was as if it had not happened at all. She had been rebirthed by a mirror of Time, given back after what seemed like an eternity in nothingness.
| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
larkspur There's a ghost, she's wearing my face. The Time God's magic will remain, forever, an inexplicable thing. And Larkspur's time beyond it's surface would likely remain as much of a mystery as the mirror itself. Questions only lead to answers, and where's the fun in that?
Larkspur expects a quick and painless ending. The blink of an eye, a short lived demise. The idea manifests itself in her, wraps it’s claws around her soul and laces it’s way through her thoughts - a poison. She almost welcomes it, she thinks of the many times she has prayed for such a thing to happen, but now the answered prayer for salvation after an era of exile seems almost cruel.
And so she steels herself, resigned that this is, in fact, the end. But it never comes. The abyss doesn’t end with her body cast to the bottom, bones broken and shattered against the shadowed precipices of this haunted world, never to be found. Instead, Larkspur floats, and time seems to become unnaturally slow, the air eerie in it’s sudden silence. Then, as if she were hit with a great force, she gasps for air, her lungs screaming as if they had spent an eternity denied of precious air. All she can feel is the materialization of a cool, solid floor of stone beneath her body, and all she can see is blinding, brilliant white. It drives the darkness away, unrelenting, remarkable in its strength, and it overwhelms her until she is forced to close her eyes again for fear that the luminous fire may blind her permanently.
She thinks - perhaps - that this is the end, and she recalls the wild tails of the great warriors and elders of her past, of what it means to truly die, but she draws another breath, and another. She will not die today. Reassurance, certainty, presents itself in the undeniable familiarity of mountainous summer air as it assaults her senses, and she blinks, revealing the far less overwhelming darkness of the cave she now exists in, the ceiling reeling above her head as she lies motionless on the floor. Her eyes fall upon the smooth surface of the Time God’s mirror, so close that she could reach it with the soft flat of her nose. Once more she finds herself staring at the reflection in front of her, still unable to recognize the gaunt, savage looking creature that stares back at her. Despite the great destruction of the world she had been lost in, this mirror is undisturbed, unbroken, with no evidence of her passing. Realization washes over her in a waves of emotion that (perhaps for the first time in her life) are entirely unconcealed as they flit across the normally unreadable and cold edges of her face - disbelief, joy, relief.
Could she really be home?
“Hello?”
A voice! Larkspur’s heart leaps - first with fear: fear that this is another cruel trick, that her eyes are only helping to betray her mind, and she will awaken and return to the void she has been lost in for so long. However, she has never been one to bow to the contrived horrors of ones idle thoughts, and though doubt lingers as it often does, she refuses to let it over come her, and this voice is different from anything else she has heard. This is a voice, with it’s soft trill and gentle harmony, she recognizes. Larkspur stirs, driven to move despite the great weight of exhaustion that tempts her to lie frozen. She draws her legs up underneath her, hooves clacking against the stone as she rolls sideways. She hesitates, but only briefly, and in one swift move, albeit with grace akin to that of a newborn foal, she stands.
From the shadows in front of her a figure materializes, but this is no ghost, this is no haunted wraith come to drag her back into a world of terrors and nightmares. No - there is no mistaking the gleaming bay coat of the unicorn now standing in front of her, or the ivory white of the small creature that hovers at it’s hooves - both expectant. Larkspur focuses her golden gaze, blinks against the gloom until she is convinced this is not a dream. And she speaks, the sound of her own voice as foreign and unfamiliar as a stranger’s after a lifetime of silence.
“Lena? Is that you?”
@[Lena]
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Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
L E N A It was a chorus so sublime
And I started to hear it again
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Corporeal forms of memories fluttered and beckoned – for a few seconds, the nymph believed she’d concocted a mirage, a hallucination, a flood of chimeras slinking and slithering from the reflecting glass, all a stage and her a mere audience member, tossing over the fragments of her past like a haunting, poignant bottle spun to the right degree. Over the glowing haze, amidst the mysterious atmosphere, a being emerged, stepped through the mirror, as if someone once swallowed, removed, from the world via the same void, following white rabbits and mad hatters, reappeared from the hollowed edges of holes and horrors. Her eyes widened, first out of disbelief, then, when the warm, confused stare still remained in befuddlement, out of sheer shock and surprise, guided into the cacophony of confusion. Before her, occupying the same threshold, the same cavern, the same grotto, was a form she’d only seen painted amidst her recollection, impressions of strength, of valor, disappeared and stolen by whim and capricious, mercurial pursuits. The name escaped her lips before she even thought to stop it, a soft, pieced-together croon, ravished and mystified. “Larkspur…” It was the old figure of a cerulean mare encompassed in prowess, quiet, persistent, eager to guide and help a friend (even collecting ones she’d never met at the drop of a hat, at the whisper of a request from the Mender herself, and that world seemed a lifetime ago, when peace was burned and armistices enacted; folly and triumph), the piercing golden gaze, the roaming disorientation fumbling and tumbling amidst the darkness. Without a second thought, the nymph glided further into the folds of the enigma, of the riddle, of the conundrum, pushing relieved breaths into the strange expanse, on soft, dulcet steps, either to reassure a long-lost, beloved friend, or to allow time for the ghost to escape, for her mind to christen and anoint more blinding mania. But she reached and pulled, first with her soft maw, towards the blue shoulder, and when she found it was corporeal, real, tangible threads of a woven companion, she extended her frame further, gave no thought to Larkspur’s potential discomfort, and laced her neck around the others’, pulled her into an unwavering embrace. Valorous, intrepid, staunch and refined, she gave every essence of her heart into the amiable touch, into the cordial caress, so overjoyed, so content, so delighted, elated, thrilled, and euphoric, dazzled and spellbound by what the God of Time had given and granted them in another unearthly, otherworldly entanglement. Unhesitant warmth, sweet murmurings, sweeping spirits and shuffled choreography of her vibrant incantations, the mellifluous glide of her song, of her arias, shifted into the hole, taunted the haunting sphere and layered it with quiet, remorseless beauty, tucked it into the other frame’s pelt, tender reverence. “I’ve missed you.” And the sprite, the fairy, wanted to ask so many things: where she’d been, what she’d done, how she’d been consumed by the mirror and spurned by the Time God only to be anointed again, but none of the breathy whims seemed to matter at the precise moment, and she pulled away, smiling, glimmering, so full of hope and incandescence for a returned confidante, that she only slipped a silly, delicate query to a woman who’d been thrown from a reflection. “How are you?”
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| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
larkspur There's a ghost, she's wearing my face. ”Larkspur…”
Lena is a light, a fire, her touch warmth, comfort, further awakening the cerulean solider to the reality of the world around her. Larkspur closes her eyes, shuts them tightly and locks her jaw against the stinging sensation behind them as the dark bay’s gentle embrace grounds her to this place, and a flood of memories fly past her, brief glimpses of the past, erratic and indiscernible. Larkspur remembers one thing clearly, and that is the fear that stalked her through the realm beyond the Time God’s mirror - the fear that she was damned to spend an eternity existing alone. The familiarity Time Mender’s presence instills a sense of calm in her, a tranquility that transcends the trivial processes of understanding and discerning truth and lies that threaten to sink her into the depths of her own confusion. Lena is real, this is real, as real as any flesh and blood and beating hearts could be, and Larkspur revels in this new existence. She is reborn from the mirror, escaped from the spite of of the Time God, his prison, or purgatory, a sinner given another chance at salvation.
Did she deserve it?
“I’ve missed you.”
Larkspur’s head swivels, swings, her horn slicing the air and the dark river of her mane shifting against the dusk blue of her neck. She reaches to brush the bright and smiling mare’s shoulder in turn, lingers in reassurance, and sighs heavily. She imagines that the Mender has questions, as any one would after witnessing such an act of magic, but she does not pry or prod Larkspur with any inquiries that may linger. Instead the kind hearted, joyous Lena stands beside her, hopeful in her silence, without demands or ultimatums, as unwavering and resolute in her convictions as Larkspur remembers her. Perhaps the Mender lacked the strength of a warrior, the brutality and insidious nature of those who called themselves servants of war, but there is no doubt in the midnight mare’s mind that Lena is as lion hearted as any other. Her strength comes not from flesh or skill at arms, but from spirit and soul, an undeniable force that surpasses the fortitude any soldier worth their salt could muster. This is why Larkspur revered and esteemed her dearest, closest friend above any other, and the reason she would defend her without hesitation or question. Though perhaps Larkspur’s time beyond the looking glass may have scarred her, not in wounded flesh or broken bones, but in heart and mind, her loyalty remains as unwavering and immovable as the very mountains that reign over these lands. Some things never change.
“How are you?” The whimsical, melodic hum of Lena’s words, encouraging and comforting, reach out to Larkspur through the cool cavern air. She does not answer immediately, but rather stands in pensive, brooding hesitation, gilded eyes falling once more upon the smooth surface of the Mirror where they fixate on the image of her and Lena both - this picture, this portrait, far less strange than the one of herself that she had stared upon just moments before. She glances back to Lena, her friend, her confident, a war of emotions waging their way across her face, and she is visibly pains as she fights, struggles and drowns in her own uncertainties, trying to find an answer, an explanation worthy of the title. There are none.
“I don’t know.” Larkspur relents, and it is as close to the real truth as she can offer. She once more steels herself, reconstructs her walls and towers and ramparts of indifference, of feigned assurance, but she does not stray from the Mender’s side, does not waver from her warmth. She tries to offer some explanation, some sureness, but even Larkspur fails to convince herself of her own convictions. “I only remember falling. Endless falling. Cold and smoke and ice.” She hesitates a second time, her own voice a whisper, unfathomable images of the darkness from whence she came reemerging even in the light. “What season is it Lena? Dare I ask how long I've been lost?”
The greater question still: did she want to know?
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Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
L E N A It was a chorus so sublime
And I started to hear it again
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Lena would have liked to linger in the threads of the past for moments longer, to allow time to stretch and unfold in what she knew, in what she could recollect and remember, but the snippets broke in quick, exotic motions. Confusion cloistered and bound, locked hold of the riddled catacomb with its eerie spells and unknown calculations, swallowing souls only to spit them out seasons later, letting them suffer and simmer in eternal ignorance. Unfortunately, she too was a victim to incomprehension, not understanding the hows, the whys, the reasons beyond thrown coils, indefinite, hour-ed lures and forgotten synapses, the way time, with his sardonic gaze, strangled, choked, smothered some and allowed others to blossom, bloom, and flourish. If Zikar-Sin, the Haruspex, were amongst the confines, perhaps she could conjure and compose all of the unraveling queries assaulting, overwhelming, her thorned crown upon his monocle prowess, but they were alone, adrift, in the swift hands of Gods and idle trances of enigmas, without answers to conundrums and labyrinths. Solutions and responses were without holy rites and intricate decibels, blending into a ricocheted cacophony, befuddlement and bewitching. In truth, even as Larkspur crooned her own questions and the Mender listened to them echo, leap, bound, off the walls, she could only offer, bestow, grant vague notions and sentiments, unsure of when the blue figure had been caught in time’s snare, and when the paralyzing storms of her past had been left in shards and shambles. She didn’t know if she should have been angry, frustrated, at the Gods’ underhanded wiles and whims, or merely helpless, incapable of aiding her friend before she was absconded in reflective glances and sparked electrocution. Her eyes, however, clung to the strength, the grandeur, the opulence of the mare she’d known, she’d trusted, she’d guided into enemy lines with careful composure and resilient fortitude, mustered it into their garden of puzzles; a stroke of Eden’s wrath. “Its currently Tallsun – but I’m unaware of when you were snatched…” Stolen, taken from us. She tried to piece together the threads of Larkspur’s absence and all of their rattled, pernicious fixtures caught along the way – the battles waged on sand and mist, the pestilence driving them into sepulchers and catacombs, trapping them in underground sanctuary, the stolen children of Arah and their flailing armistices towards falls and cliffs, a Regime threatening to topple underneath their might – at least a year lost in the looking glass, if all of her events were catalogued correctly. And while they’d lived on, pressed their daggers into the earth and swarmed to the heavens, what had Larkspur done: suffered, waged, in the clutches of cold ramparts, icicle reveries, rabbit hole exposition? Her whispers, harnessed and revered, stroked in tremulous warbles, tender gaze riveted across the glowing tirades, then back upon her returned companion. “If I were to guess - at least four seasons have passed.” The world had changed, altered, spun on without the spurred flower, clock ambitions and aspirations scaling, faltering, in their ministrations and machinations, spun and whittled, carved and sculpted, into confusing anomalies – and if the maiden asked, could the fairy provide her everything she yearned for? Could she replicate the missing pieces? Did the femme even want her to – or was there a rhyme, a reason, to bask in the grace of yesteryear, to tumble back into the throes of another lifetime? Which would be more painful?
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| Hidden Account |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 4 Buff: NOVICE |
| Bluey |
larkspur There's a ghost, she's wearing my face.
“Four seasons…” Larkspur’s voice is a soft murmur that spills past parted lips in disbelief, muffled disquiet, and her head reels at the thought of imagining an entire year having passed and gone, a complete and perfect circle of time, lost, taken from her, while she wandered as a wayfarer in a land of dreams, a place of nightmares. She breathes, in and out, a steady rhythm that masks the true calamity that roils and rages inside her as she battles with this new reality, this new world that has continued on even in her absence. Panic lingers at the periphery of the tumult, because her thoughts drift and linger on the unknown, and she considers all that could have come to pass; what struggles have her people faced, what horrors and atrocities? And was there anything she could have done to stop it, had she not been held prisoner beyond the Time God’s mirror? Or had the Aurora Basin flourished, thrived, untouched by war and destruction?
“I feel lost.” Larkspur remarks suddenly, her voice gaining strength, her convictions, though still lost, gaining ground. “Though perhaps I was lost to begin with.”
She shifts her weight, tests the flexibility of her legs, the snap of her knees and the pull of her hock. She feels the flat, smooth surface of the cave floor beneath her hooves. This mountain, perhaps as old as the world itself, will not be moved, no apparition or hallucination is strong enough to break this floor and send them tumbling into the deep. Larkspur’s eyes linger ahead of them, to the bend in the tunnel, the glow of distant light that beckons and tells of a world beyond the darkness, and it calls her like a siren song. Now more thane ever the solider craves escape, and the distant promise of sunlight and an open sky whispers and calls to her with the gentle breeze that floats through the cavern, the smell of summer following behind it. Another glimpse of the mirror, her reflection, wants to send her racing, fleeing, screaming from the cavern, never to return. She brushes Lena’s shoulder once more, fervent, avid, nodding in the direction of the light, of the world beyond, her eyes eager - more alive than they had been before.
“Please, let’s leave. The longer I stand here, the more I fear I’ll wake up and realize this is nothing more than a dream.”
The possibility that this is a dream, a cruel joke played by the Mirror, the Time God, or both, is not lost on her. However, despite the hopeless, endless depths of the world of shadow beyond the Mirror’s surface, Larkspur never lost hope entirely, and she does not lose it now. Lena’s warmth, her voice, the smell of herbs and flowers and earth that clings to her coat, familiar and comforting, reassures her. She watches Imogen, mirthful and bright and spritely as she flits about Lena’s hooves, never far from her side. The pair are so vastly different from Larkspur, so bright and full of promise and joy, while she remains a jaded silhouette in comparison, a shell of her former self. She argues with herself, considers the costs, what it means to have lost her memories, to see them in the distance of her waking thoughts, unable to catch them. The same question remains as before, the same question that worries Lena's thoughts troubles her own. Which is more painful - a lifetime lost forever or a painful past relieved?
She isn’t sure she knows the answer, and the longer it remains unanswered the more she begins to think there may never be one. Of one thing she is certain, and that is the gnawing, corrosive guilt that eats at her spirit, sets fire to her soul, as she begins to linger in the despondency of her own imagination. She fixates and envisions the many ways the helpless may have suffered in her absence, how those she loves might have been harmed, or hurt or worse. Duty and honor are the ties that bind Larkspur, commitment and justice to her cause are the facets of the armor that make up her integrity. Despite her cold and callous demeanor, her abrasiveness, her inequities, she is admirable and honorable, righteous and sacrificing of herself for the greater good. She feels as though she has failed them, and it kills her.
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Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
L E N A It was a chorus so sublime
And I started to hear it again
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Soft murmurs and rampant disbelief, the cloistered, spellbinding shells and shackles of seasons lost and time missing, mislaid, strayed and irretrievable, and Lena watched as her returned friend solidified the tragedy, the strange animosity, coiled over her. While the Mender had faced adversity, brandished teeth and fangs and violence over the tender nuances of treachery and iniquity, she’d never had anything stolen from her, pieces and hours of her life simply plucked away from her bones, separated from companions, from reality, from everything she cherished and loved. The world carried on despite many cruelties, and the sweeping hands of life always reminded them they could be replaced, forgotten, absconded and mocked, ridiculed with tedious anthems and unjustified barbarity: she wouldn’t note about the blinding unfairness of Larkspur’s fate, but she’d stand beside her, attempt to repair the vile damage discarding snippets and shards of her strength, her prowess, her existence. The sylph extended every inch, every sliver, every splinter of her beneficence, curled it fondly between the darkened groves of the grotto, traced and sketched it neatly through quiet, nearly inaudible song, lilting, poignant bird trills and warbles, like a mantle, like a cloak, over the heaving tides of Larkspur’s shoulders. Melodic, harmonious candles in the unearthly reflection of the mirror, the villain and the hero, drifted and collected, lingered and tinseled, carried powerful notes and stanzas, caught in the listless abyss, piercing through the scarring tribulations. “You don’t have to be anymore. What can I do to help?” The answer was singularly pronounced in the slide of the blue femme’s shoulder, the poignant glances towards the light, a beacon, a herald, a bountiful omen waiting for them, pulling their hearts towards the bending fragments of sun and away from the eerie tension of the looking glass; Alices’ clawing towards the surface. The fay’s stare followed the motion, executed movement, a dance, a waltz pushing past the midnight, trenchant gallows, the glowing, uncanny shield of a God’s impish work, leading them out of the trap and back into the wiles of the Basin’s all-encompassing peaks and summits. Quietly, peacefully, trying desperately to not disturb the tense anomalies surrounding the maiden, too overwhelmed, too affected by the disastrous qualms of hands and powers not her own, she expanded her song into the ice, into the rapture, into the reverie, of the valley before them, skirting and gliding along the rime and frost. “What would you like to do?” Did she long to see a particular area, to glance at every center of their home, or to merely rest in its protective hold, no longer tethered to the shattered remnants of a heinous reflection?
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[O] Disintegrating, from all the medicine. [RE, Lena]
