The Songbird didn’t wander into the junctures of harmony, of serenity, of tranquility or bliss: those few, scarce moments had come and gone, and she ended up waltzing into a cluster of acrimony, derision, and loathing. The crackling monstrosities lit at the announcements made by their Lord Deimos, and as she cycled through it (Ophelia gone – another leader churning into the sands, into the dusk, into the abyss; new leaders crowned – the rosy Hotaru, the eerie Thranduil), there came a righteous song bursting from the lungs of one she’d never expect. Her eyes widened as she maneuvered into the sanction, as if she’d been placed right back at the latest Edge meeting, taking in and witnessing every ounce of vitriol, every nuance of venom and toxins. But she listened, she soaked in, she absorbed all the words Arah had to say, all the notions spouting and foaming and reaching towards their sovereigns (of sacrifices, of vows, of promises and oaths); and all the fibers of her possession, all the wires of her frame, stoked a calm, composed reverie. It sauntered with the wind, light, delicate, airy, but strong in spirit, enduring in claim. First, to the newly crowned, she bowed her head, elegantly poised and perfected the whims of her valor, the core of her determination, into a warm grin, an amiable smile. “Congratulations to you both,” and she hoped the sonnet would rise, fly, and glide above all the tyranny, all the lashing, all the mud-flinging strokes slung across the grounds, ridiculous and petulant. Then, to the rest of the world, to the edges of Arah, to the temper of Ulrik, to the rising flames of Thranduil. “What has happened to us?” Because she wanted to know at one point they’d lost everyone, where they’d sauntered away, came back crawling as subversive cretins and condemning, denouncing embers. “This isn’t how a herd grows stronger. This isn’t how we maintain force or might.” This is how we fall apart. The naiad paused, unrelenting and potent, establishing a graceful, finessed equilibrium amidst the fiendish storms and the brutal tempest, before she continued, trying to weave the right notes, the harmonious conjectures, to aid and assist in leading her family down a more enduring road. “Why are we maligning someone who hasn’t had an opportunity to lead? To show us what they can do? Why can’t they become strong?” A quiver of irritation filled her sights, built and brewed within her; brimming and foaming to the top, but never sent out into the void. It wouldn’t have made anything better. It wouldn’t have salvaged the meager situation. She’d been through the years, the seasons, of hardship and perseverance, didn’t grow offended when no one asked her calling to be given a throne and scepter. “This meeting isn’t about Arah, isn’t about Ulrik, isn’t about anyone but the herd. If they were chosen to benefit the Basin, then I wish them luck, and I will provide all that I can to aid our sovereign.” Finally, her gaze flickered and fluttered back to the disappearing Arah, to the suffering Engineer, to all the other beasts gathered amidst the rough, tempestuous surroundings – proffering the same advice she’d given to the rancorous lad in the Edge. “If you don’t like the choices, then do something about it. If you believe you can do better, then challenge. If you believe you’re the better option, show them.”