Together, the two belles caressed the feral, otherworldly loam, indulgent, whimsical birds on the relentless horizon. Eclipsed and enfolded in the sheen of winter, they pulsed with maddening grace, dancing along the outcrops of ice and glaciers, serenading the stretching, barren whirls with snowflake endeavors and capricious delights; a fuselage of the indulgent, of the tranquil, of the composed. Given over to the frigid walls and tempestuous mountains, they were seraphs of the chilling, frigid tombs, bewitching and spellbinding the whistling wiles and nefarious breezes with the plunge of sanctity and croons of majesty; timeless finesse parading and pervading the choking gales. A jaunt, a step, a twirl, a sway into the midst of the unknown, sunken into the roots of stone and rubble, into the patchwork annihilation of ruins and devastation, painting a portrait of exuberance over the tapestry of mayhem and acrimony, twisting and turning until all the wintry hues altered into honeysuckle filaments and archaic strands. Another adventure could have melted from their scenic junctures, combing amidst the gelid warrens or Siberian labyrinths, surveying the old tomes and particles of their past (a season, a cycle, spent within caves and caverns, hoping for warmth and praying for not all hope to be lost, like their home, like their shelter, like their sanctuary), had a vaguely familiar scent not nestled itself amongst the time maiden’s nares. Once of the desert, and now of the falls, hastened in tropical paradise and unopened treasures; she’d remembered it well, the pieces and parchments of glares, of sedition, of parallel munitions and the burning trails of drawn invitations, the curling bark and leaves left in bitter ashes. Midas.

The fairy didn’t hold much information upon him, truthfully, and could only surmise from actions etched into prior meetings and circumstances: wary, protective of his home, almost unyielding in his disposition, in his opinions. For a few moments, she halted her movement and surveyed the expanse, narrowing her eyes and speculating over her next course of action. Imogen chirped her own recourse, and Lena listened in their silent diatribe, gesturing and attempting to surmise why he’d be here, amongst the trenchant, wayfaring, biting realm, where their kingdom lay just over the next peak, ferocious, merciless, when he didn’t seem to hold them in much regard. A meager instance held her firmly in place, for she could do the same, ignore, turn away, leave him to his wandering amidst the nefarious, raw containers, another void, another vessel, sinking into the snow and rime. But she was no such demon, and no sooner had the second passed did she yield further into the atmosphere, kitsune and nymph of the snow following the presence of a golden King. Curiosity, intrigue, and a sudden will, a fierce determination, to right all the wrongs, all the misgivings, all the poor understandings, drove her limber strides into the onslaught, so as she crested over a frozen knoll, she hovered over his bright frame in the snow valley, stark in the ivory wilderness. A friendly call, despite the hardships, despite the recalcitrance, beckoned and flourished from the tip of her tongue, mellifluous harmony fluttering and flickering in the wind. “Lord Midas!” Thereafter, she tilted her head, Imogen settling between her forelegs (gazing upon the fellow companion, examining fire with fire), and called out once more, diving into the effervescent inquiries. “What brings you to the Steppe?”