Especially with friends - Lena honored the statement with a mighty grin and a stalwart beat, because in all her glorious days, months, seasons, and years along the winding threshold of Helovia, it was friendship she’d cherished and had taken away from her so many times. She’d opened her heart and let the world pour in its woes, its melancholies, its ill wills, smiled at the anxieties, the lunacy, the madness, settled potent remnants, cast aside weary shades, listened, witnessed, and drummed vivid hallelujahs. The sylph provided over and over again, a selfless, enduring foil to the manic pulses and the wicked staccatos, proffering and bestowing light in the dim, shadowy conjectures of Stygian pursuits and plots. But time always proved a bewitching, enticing factor; the world shifted, individuals disappeared, and she was stuck on rime, on ice, on minarets and towers, with no way to follow, with no way to see where they’d all gone. Aurelius, the golden stag with a heart equally hued, Poppy, a long-lost child on the brink of thorns and nestles, the refugees of the old, old Edge, still immersed in casings of caverns and catacombs, and the list could spiral on and on, dusty, curling, coiling back upon itself. Almost every gesture she made was towards camaraderie, amiability, benevolence, and sometimes she was rewarded with laughter, with giggles, with merriment that gleamed just beyond the surface, potential for bonds, for alliances, for attachment, and she rejoiced in those junctures and instances. Then, they’d be gone, vanished into the air, fettered, tangled, frayed – sometimes as if they’d never been companions, as if they’d never see one another before, and she never understood what had happened or what had changed.

Why couldn’t she keep the things she coveted the most? Had she erred in some way? Had she not given them enough? Had she not brandished something they wanted, something they craved? When they spilled out their sorrows, when they spoke of their wishes, their dreams, their hopes and invocations, did she not entrust the right advice? Then, the gleaming potency dawned on her, a wave of indignity flustering and alarming the shards of her movements, the spellbinding vestige of her motions.

She never told her own secrets, and maybe that’s why she remained in the arts of light, airy, delicate, fanciful moments, because then she didn’t have to spill out every enigma, every mystery, and stay as she always yearned to be. No one would know of barbs, needles, jaunts and jibes, no one would know of her worthlessness, no would know that beneath her plain form, her unassuming presence, there were more deceptions and treacheries, more condemnations and paradoxes, more quandaries and upheavals. The Songbird could sing and dance and waltz without having to give away the furtive essences, the specious designs, the covert ruses and schemes that made her who she was. Perhaps that was why so few knew her beyond Time Mender - she healed, she smiled, she laughed, then she sauntered away, never pressing, never reaching, never delving any deeper, afraid of what they might see, what they might find when they peered closer.

So – could she do that now? With Ashamin? With Rexanna? With the new blood who didn’t know her beyond a name and a title, beyond a grin and a heart? Or would it be another pattern, another exploit into brushing journeys, barely a stroke on the horizon, barely a caress on the breeze, easily forgotten, easily tossed aside?

The sylph wanted to show them many things, but she wasn’t sure if her concealments were one of them. She looked back, tossed her head in a content, serene motion, then settling again into her pretenses, into her beneficence, reaching out past the borders and into the center of their kingdom, unwinding a midnight sway, twirl, and whirl amidst the autumn atmosphere. The moon carved a beautiful nuance within the pool’s rippling depths, the aurora reflected its tranquil, unsettled, wild elegance, and the world remained poised, composed, layered and lacquered in its bewitching, enticing haze. The Basin always endured, and so would she, so would they, so would those strong enough to stand in its sanction. She stopped when they arrived at the soft embankment, gesturing towards the wilderness, the framework of its chilling endeavors, the sentiments of old blending into the new. Imogen chose a rock to nestle upon, chirping and calling out into the Stygian evening; and Lena’s ears pricked, curiosity and senses unfolding into the vestiges. What could she say to entreat them into this wondrous palace? What could she do to ensure they yearned to remain? What could she do to maintain their happiness, their satisfaction, in the sovereign they’d chosen? Her words unfolded across the reservoir, vivid and luminescent, harmonious and mellifluous, a nymph nestled in her elements and sharing them amongst her brethren, delighted, charmed, and enchanted. “Here it is! Even in the depths of winter, it never solidifies.” Pointing with her maw towards the right, she indicated another close landmark, an opening in the mountainside, an unseen mirror resting inside. “The Haruspex’s cave is nearby, where our resident oracle speaks to the God of Time, our deity.”

Would they be inquiring? Would they be enthralled? Would they want to stay?

@[Ashamin] @[Rexanna]