An overflow of the transcendent; they maneuvered with purpose, with motivation, with goals, with a sight on the horizon and a gift in hand. Lithe, limber magi, careening amidst the widened atmosphere, gave over to the elemental comrades: a grasp of winter, beholden and regal in the palisade of ice, of stone, of caverns, of wonder. Swift and devout, they covered the scenery in a blaze of sienna, shadow, and light, pinnacles of the believers, of the compassionate, of the virtuous and downtrodden. Where another beast would have never warranted the offerings made by the Falls lord, the Songbird offered benevolent decrees and musings of a sagacious splendor, where another creature would scoffed and refused, she listened and proffered the opportunity to deliver a cherished, spellbinding object. Whether or not Mirabella would accept the token of apology, the sacrificial slant of apprehension, misgivings, and misunderstandings, remained an unsure venue. A tip of the scales could venture down either path, and Lena fervently hoped the youth wouldn’t be one more victim of the wrath, the malice, the hate, the abhorrence collected and gathered amongst their world: another cog in the murder machine. Slowing, traipsing lightly through the thickening snow, she and her beloved kitsune searched, nostrils flared and rising towards the air, examining the earth for the pink-hued child, for the little babe whose feelings had been crushed by rampant hypocrisy and petulant ire. They marched like ghosts, airy and elegant, quiet and ardent, fueled by necessity and kindled by kindness, stretching beyond the impasses of boldness and declarations, providing compassion and beneficence where few had ever bestowed the thought. By the light of the auroras, by the sheen of the dawn, they roamed closer and closer towards the hot springs, the delightful, curling bounties of the hot puffs of air, an enchanted garden of heat and geniality, before spreading out a mellifluous calling for the lovely, lively youth. Imogen, guardian and protector of more than just the Time Mender, secured the prize around her neck, settling into the lacquer of snow as a piece of its vestige, and the two awaited the crowning glory of an intrigued youth, the passing of presents, the fostering of forgiveness.

@[Mirabella]

No time had been wasted; a spark, a flicker, of rose and pinkish hues, the summoned babe christened, regarded, floating to the beacon. Lena smiled, remembered the precious hours the child had spent in her care, generously bestowing invitations, carefully crossing borders and herd lines, meandering through valleys, dunes, and hills – but she hadn’t guarded her enough from the cruelty of the world, and the Mender could only hope the child hadn’t delved into the cold, callous machinations, could still embrace the heartfelt, the steadfast, the effervescent. She polished a mellifluous aria, concocted and composed serenades, reminded the world of munificent beams, of charitable moments, of compassionate flames and wholesome interludes. “How are you, Mirabella?” She lowered her head, delved her honeysuckle gaze into the child’s own mixed stare – a vibrant figure carved and sculpted for her father; the nymph could see the strength, the resolution, but also the youth, the juvenile tendencies, the wayward path to growing and blossoming. Her grin deepened and she drew a solemn breath, the presaged conversation would not be easy, and she had no way or means of predicting the child’s reactions. “I met with Lord Midas.” She had no intentions of reliving the disappointing moments, beautiful bark markings crisscrossed and sketched into an etched invitation, burnt to a crisp, folding amongst themselves until they were mere ashes, foiled beacons of merriment. Instead, her crown inclined towards Imogen, who bounced forward towards Mirabella’s wake with the amulet gilded and glowing around her neck, a gift bestowed and proffered to a babe who shouldn’t have seen the perils, the flaws, the hazardous wreckage of adults. “He asked me to give you this amulet – a token of his apologies.” Her lips pressed together in a thin line, her ardent thoughts a whirlwind of conclusions and pathways, crinkled and divided. One last query solidified the impasse. “Will you accept it?”

@[Mirabella]

The amiability blended into cordial surroundings, pleasant coils of warm steam, easygoing conversation, plumes and vibrant hymns of platitude, of tranquility, of unsaid moments cast back into shadow and light. Her smile remained, bright and illuminating, cast into refined grace and beneficent qualities, rendering polite intrigues with the daughter of one of her dear friends. “I’m well.” Thereafter, it was the pending acceptance or refusal drifting through the confines of the Songbird’s mind; if Mirabella was to be among those quick to hasten her pride, demean and reduce those who’d ruined it, or savor the option to revitalize, grow, bloom, and blossom from her experiences. The silence, the judgment, plagued and swarmed, tensed and dove, because Lena still didn’t know how she felt about the matter entirely – one moment hoping, praying, salvaging all the remnants of peace, of repose, expecting others to feel the same – and becoming a witness to when it was all dashed away with vicious embers and dying ashes. The Lord had apologized for his actions and justified his means; but would he do it again? Would an altruistic crusade end in vicious, vile interludes, or would they be able to cherish restful vows? The world was constantly churning and changing, and naught could be said for the future. The Mender breathed a silent exhalation of relief, however, when the little lass took the proffered item: for now, perhaps they’d been given a slender opportunity for serenity. Imogen tenderly ducked out of her garb, and the amulet glittered and glistened at Mirabella’s feet, granted and given in promises and convictions. The nymph hastened a calm, composed response, cherished the firm wisdom she could bestow, she could ignite and kindle upon the small babe. “A wise choice. May it remind you some actions, some flaws, and some mistakes can be reversed.” For how long was the true gamble.

@[Mirabella]