The echoes of battle were their backdrop, avid screams, swords meeting swords, knives and daggers plunging into skin and sinew. She couldn’t see any of it, but she could imagine, could picture the vivid lacerations, the cutting schemes, and nearly closed her eyes, away from its horrific hold. Instead, she watched in the dim hollows silence, awaiting an answer from her captor, a reason for her involvement. The Songbird should have known it had nothing to do with her, merely another manifestation of her nothingness, of her non-existence. A flailing means to an end, a fool running late to her errands, a forgotten morsel tucked behind veils and caves. A backdrop, an afterthought, a creature who strived to weave serenity when all the world craved was hate, and even when she stoked every fiber of her being, every note in her songs, the notions still went unanswered. She was naught, no one, a nameless face in a sea of cretins, a flower pressed into a tapestry of thorns. Her actions were not written down in any tales, her benevolence was not courted into legends, her eloquence was not recognized or worthy; he’d snared, beguiled, and befuddled an object with little value. Reality curled and pooled in her stomach, locked consternation in the mindless whims of apprehension and ineptitude, until all she could do was stare across the void. Inferior, pathetic, and disgraceful, her head bowed against the abysmal darkness, the Stygian coils, the morphing of the horizon; she could no longer see the dancing leaves or wide, open canopy. He shifted, tucked behind her as the realm altered, changed, like a storm brewing on the horizon, and still, she said nothing. The Mender didn’t comment on his cowardice, because they’d all been weak before, had felt danger stir and cried in their sleep, and every fiber of her being manifested a potent, powerful boldness, posture stiffening, muscles rigid and unyielding, unsettled as the war waged on, lumbered to an end, and she could only view the shadows, only watch the trees. In these moments, she should have been racing across the hillsides, the labyrinths, bestowing the only true purpose she had to her comrades, to her allies, and instead, she was a trapped bird, feathers clipped, shield bent, armor chipped and broken.

He must have found his courage, because quickly thereafter he resumed his prior form, and she openly stared as he painted his brushstrokes, as he lifted inky plumes and answered her query. The ink dabbled and sculpted the purpose, crusades, sovereigns, the widening chasm, the flanking composition of chaos and mayhem, always crossing and building behind their eyes. “War,” on a whisper, she gave the proper word to his drawing, a title for the clashing figures, and bestowed one quiet, indulgent sigh. Just a pawn, just a tool, just an instrument for injustice and empires – the nymph’s gaze flickered to his, and she saw the remnants of his query, the yearning for information. The furtive collections of their motivations hadn’t made it to the Falls’ spies, hadn’t been lanced or pierced amidst fruition and deceit. Part of her didn’t want to tell him anything, wished to remain quiet and petulant through the beckoning of time, curt and keen until the end of the debacle, and another portion knew it wouldn’t matter. The battle was already coming to a close and the results would be settled amongst dust and ruin. Explanations would evaporate, speculations would ripple, and bitterness, raw, rancorous fringes, would crawl, would unearth, would wander the fields all over again. She had no heart to continue the vast, unnerving spiral of hate. Her voice, listless, saddened, proffered the only remnants of information she knew. “The Basin went to the Falls once, asked for an armistice, offered an alliance.” She’d been there, had waxed poetic, had tried her best to change and alter the wreckage, the pathways of machinations, of calculations, of future, foretold annihilation – even then, her efforts hadn’t mattered. “King Midas refused us.” Would he understand their anger? Their wrath? Honeyed features swam towards the distance, hoped to see something beyond darkness, a sign, an emblem, of victory or defeat, but she was provided with naught. “Sometime later, from what I understand, the Edge was in turmoil. Were you around for the murders?” The series of massacres, the sullen slaughter of so many innocent figures, so many ruined beasts (dear Psyche, forgotten and forlorn, Ode, a child suffering and destroyed), had spiraled out of control, and the clues had only offered hints of how far the treachery reached. She didn’t truly wait for his answer, for his nod, for his token of understanding, continuing with the web of tales, with the ends of history and beginning of new chapters. “The Moon Goddess had corrupted another to do these terrible deeds – so the Edge leaders no longer wished to live in her grasp.” Her stare ran back to his, and gently, firmly, poured the remnants of the acrimonious chalice. “So they chose your home.” There was bound to be more, but she hadn't been thrown into the depths of Machiavellian quandaries and quests; one more forgotten fool left with the frayed ends of avaricious plots. Worthless, the winds sang.