Lacerations closed, wounds narrowed, injuries reduced and shrank, and the femme stepped aside so that the grieving mother could rejoice instead. A heavy rush of breath escaped from her lungs, a salutation, a prayer, answered and sculpted and revered on the brink of demise and quietus. She nodded and smiled toward the other babe and Hotaru, accepting their gratitude but never their debts or obligations, always eager to assist her comrades. Her satisfaction could reign over healed children and mended soldiers, not owed favors or misgiven providences. She very nearly wandered off altogether, her craft done and fastened, finished, bestowing art and form when it was needed, then wandering off into the valleys and sun once more – the babe needed time with her dam, to wash away the agonies and miseries eternal rest almost bestowed. The youth’s words, though, stopped her in her tracks, and her ears twisted in a curious, inquisitive fashion, testing the strange proclamation, the bizarre utterances. She’d felt death, she’d sensed its touch, its caress, its pestilent promises and alluring decrees, had almost been taken in its clutches and absconded to Hades’ chambers, crossing over Styx with no coins in hand. The Mender’s cranium tilted a fraction, benevolent eyes searching over the tiny dame’s frame, for a sign, for a hint, of the phenomenon beyond the unseeing, the intangible, but there was only a riddle of scars. Blemishes could tell many stories, and an unholy scythe’s chose to remain anonymous. But Lena held no dominance upon damnation and the condemned, could not pick them away from the moaning rivers and the bestial sway, couldn’t pluck them from the gallows when they’d already been chiseled and marked for the barbaric occasion. Her talents laid in bewitching what had already been tarnished, in alleviating pain, in granting hope and repose amongst unrelenting pain and agonies. Had anyone else mustered enchantments? Imogen shook her head in response, narrowed eyes darting from one form to another, all moved, all gasping, but naught exploring into the regions of obliteration. The sylph was forced to declare the unknown and her ignorance over its scruples, bestowing her charitable grin and amiable expression, a twinkle in her eyes, a keen swell in her note - when her gaze settled upon the child’s, she only prospered honeyed words and ambrosial truths. “I have no power over death. Perhaps that is for you alone, little one.” Was it unheard of, to taste death and rise once more? Was she a garbed phoenix, clutched in ashes and embers, regenerated and reborn time and time again?