Normalcy plaited its way through her mind, remembering and savoring the locked quarters and the safeguarded roots, the sanctum, the spells, the sanctuaries built amongst timber and mist, shadows and abyss; she walked away from her home for the essence of custom and routine. Too often she’d been settled into the quandaries, the enigmas, hovering and pervading the ancient loam, cast off into mysterious bounties and furtive, specious glances, wondering who was friend and who was foe. Life was a constant adventure, but every now and again she enjoyed the circumstances surrounding the quiet, serenity, tranquility, arms and alms of repose, and herein she ducked between the folds and eaves of the nestled forest and the high-strung boughs, tempting an inaudible sigh, tucked and sequestered between her lips. She thought naught of the days beforehand, the hours proceeding, the long, drifting edge and fringe of nefariousness and resolution, tucking herself and Imogen away, into the fluttering whims and caprice of the Threshold. Perhaps here she’d find an ample distraction, a wondrous occasion to spill and brew the ample contentment of the Basin, the strong, enduring presence of summits and caverns, and she’d be permitted to forget the bitter taste floating, trapped, between her teeth and tongue. They meandered like silent sonnets, springing lightly over babbling brooks, drifting amongst wood and groves, piecing together fragments and figments of imagination, fairy tales they hadn’t woven in seasons, blooming and blossoming off the forgotten buds and summer sprigs; she could have laced together a harmonious interlude of doves and swallows, had a scent not drifted past her nares and leashed, ensnared, tethered her attention fully upon its presence. It was familiar, but so primordial, so primeval, the young nymph thought she’d stumbled into a time warp: her crown twisted in every direction, her eyes widened, her heart stung in a rapid, swift beat, and Imogen crisscrossed over old pathways and worn trails. The sylph pressed one more foot forward, extended her cranium to take in every ounce, every nuance, of the dream-like notion, and still, it persisted, interlocked and chained into the spread of the forest. As if she was afraid to put a name to the fragrance, to the existence, she merely followed, quick, fleeting, maneuvering and crashing amidst the underbrush with the kitsune at her heels as if she’d seen a ghost (and perhaps she’d had; could she be more than a wraith, a memory, a phantom?).

But then her gaze didn’t betray her, no matter how many times she shook her skull to ensure sanity and clarity, for in a moment’s notice, she stood in front of one of her dearest friends, altered, morphed, changed by a fleeting hand of time, but still alive, whole. “Faelene?” She breathed and sang amidst a gasp and an aria, pouring the strangled melody from a bewildered, spellbound throat, startled and lost, confused and euphoric. Her mane was shorn, her body was scarred (and weren’t they all just a little more wounded than the last time they’d been together, adrift in the limelight and auroras?), but she was still fundamentally Faelene, Lena was sure of it. The crimson tassels, the proud, determined stance, and she fought tooth and nail to not erupt into an unrelenting bout of ebullience and excitement, reserving her outcries and exuberance for when the femme permitted it. She had so many questions, so many queries, fluttering and battering and chasing after the skies, the stars, the dawn, but feared to utter any; instead, a giant, gallant grin, feeling like it hadn’t been worn in a century, fastened over and around her lips. “I’m so glad to see you again! Are you well?”