The Songbird was at war with herself.

It was a cyclical paradox, the same, eternal, endless struggle she often ruminated upon in times of crisis, in times of peril, in times of treachery. She didn’t yearn for violence, didn’t long for bloodshed, didn’t reap or slash or stab often – and when she did indulge, in vehemence, in violence, it was for campaigns. There was always purpose lodged behind the brilliant fire and brimstone, the passionate, fervent flight of abhorrence (children stolen, a home taken), and only on rare occasions she found herself marching towards a spar, practice, or skirmishes.

She was meant to heal, to nourish, to assuage and soothe, not rend, break, tear, and lacerate. Herein the principles of her nature collided, so used to the smooth, tranquil trek of her existence (sing, sing, wield time, sing, sing, then sing again), always intending to stay away from the shadows, from the deceptive realms, from the catastrophic fringes. The Mender was a piece of backbone, never truly a sword, for the Basin. Perhaps she could be a shield, a coat of arms, a smile on difficult days; but not a cutlass, not a rapier, along the threshold of duels.

But then, she thought of monsters, of demons, of murderers (a little boy wounded again, dead on the cavern floor, Roland burning to ash from a cretin fueled by hate, by loathing, by contempt), and the overwhelming determination, resolution, to grow stronger, to become mighty, to be capable of protecting her herd, drove over the waves of blossoms, of petals, of florets.

The sylph would fight, as she always did whenever called, summoned, and beckoned, lending her body for the fray, for the misery, for the pain and anguish, rehearsing for the stage of battle. She never knew which lines to recite, where to block, where to yield, where to cower or where to stand, repeating mantras in her head, remembering the distant pieces of her short life, diabolical whims taking, taking, taking the Edge, the fog, the mist, the crag –

Lena followed Sialia’s outcry, her readiness, her fortitude, and swallowed the bile coating her throat. She memorized the outline of the clearing, the fume of the hot springs, the waving grass (Imogen hid once in the bushes, waiting and waiting for her moment to spring; obeyed her wishes until the Pegasus destroyed her), the moist ground. Her eyes wavered and ghosted from one thing to the next, remembering wraiths, chilling monsters, golden warriors, allowing a brief shudder to roll through her shoulders.

She wasn’t in the Edge. She was here, within the Basin, within her chilling, beautiful confines, galvanized, kindled, incited, ready and eager to protect, to serve. Imogen coaxed, needled, pried from the background, moved to linger nearby, a carving force grinding behind her eyes (because the vixen wanted this, maybe even more than Lena).

Sialia stood, strong, tall, proud, a soldier in the ranks awaiting a healer to attack her. A quaking sigh flowed through the Mender’s throat, fluttering and basking in the midday warmth, Imogen crackling and fervent by the hot spring rocks, and all Lena could see was a mother delivering invitations with her daughter, springing from one area to the next when they yearned for celebration, when they appealed for hope. You can do this, Imogen twisted and distorted, coated and coaxed, and the fairy offered a single, saddening smile to the larger, muscular mare, begging for something out of reach.

She didn’t want to hurt or harm one of her own.

Lightly, she began her movement. Delicate, soft, supple, lithe and elegant, she proceeded in a lively pace, rapidly gaining ground, the closer she got, the faster she became (because maybe then it would be over quicker, the pain, the torment, the chaos and bedlam), intending to pass left to left, front to front. Aiming for the first blow, she applied no ounce of hatred, no weight of malice, no segment of loathing, lowering her maw in hopes of grazing the sable mare’s left hip with her teeth, a simple nip, a gesture of repose in a time of confrontation.


[686 words. 1/3. @[Sialia]
Lena, distraught and muddled by her decisions to spar, comes towards Sialia from the front, intending to pass left to left. During this endeavor, she reaches towards Sialia’s left hip, hoping to graze her with a light nip.]