Bloodshed and war was always the quickest to unfurl and took the longest to forget; the patterns, the traces, the sketches of benediction, of compassion, she always hoped to inspire, longed to weave, forever unraveled at the slightest fabrication of disaster. The boughs of time curled back in on themselves, an effervescent, inaudible flow and rapture, reeling back into her frame on a withered sigh and a honeyed breath, collected for future use, buried and intertwined amidst the pinnacles of stalwart veins and the rancorous contortion of anomalies. Her artful eyes speculated, studied the beast standing before the set of nymphs, as the remnants of hours and moments chased away the bitter entrails of wounds and lacerations, examining all over again; he seemed ill at ease, executing sharp movements and motions, either by startled by beneficence or the barren mantle of the unknown, casting hollowed shades of uncertainty. Along the bridge of his burgeoning, brimming, brewing hostility, she was a laureled figure, a paragon of silence, standing amongst the fallen with ethereal airs and vital spirits; undaunted by the masks and plays of truculent, vitriolic passions, too aware of the barbs barbarians threw, always clad in valorous armor, awaiting some feral strike. Instead of kindling prior machinations, instead of bending to the will of friction and recoil, she pieced together the glory, the glow, the hallowed exterior of her smile, dreamed and prayed relief and soothing measures would follow him through the darkening treads and vile distortions, not the bestial, barbaric venue of the shackled, tethered snares – the treachery, the danger, blooming and looming with wanton wiles. But there’s an alteration in his demeanor, a gentling, either he extinguished the needles and quills for her, or left it fleeting and stored within his frame, for mere instances later his generosity flowed amongst the chilling air, and she couldn’t find the venom, the vitriol, potentially laced within its touch. A thanks, a name, fluttered and flew about the rime and glaciers, and she, perhaps too immersed in the gratitude, in the plunge of certainty that she’d restored instead of ripped apart (a continuing bounty of forgiveness and betrayal, blood thicker than water, thicker than castles, thicker than peaks and valleys at the most unforgiving of moments), drew her grin into a brighter splendor and extended a bow to the golden stag.

Imogen didn’t do the same, considering the corpses around her, pleased to find scorch marks lanced across their pelts. The Mender, the songbird, the sylph and fairy, granted her namesake amongst the christened tides, provided avenues and rivulets of curiosity and scrutiny fixated in his stare. “A pleasure, Thranduil. I’m Lena, one of the Time Menders. This,” she paused, gaze lowering to find the ivory vixen’s frame curled and tucked against her foreleg, as if she were not musing on burned, charred bits of dust and power, “is my companion, Imogen.” The aforementioned beloved narrowed her eyes and raised her cranium towards Thranduil, tilting her head in what would be an amusing display, had her fixation not appeared so sagacious and crafty, an uncanny glimpse into the protective embrace between fostered spirits. Lena, seemingly none the wiser, riveted her mellifluous tones, her harmonic embraces, her aria, nightingale treaties, and soothing chords into ensuring the wounded had been fully tended. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”