Quiet, unsung steps polished from the depths of her convictions, soft, dulcet, satin and sleek, rummaging through streaks of snow and icy veneer, managing to finesse and exude elegance despite the wandering ties, the wayfaring hour, the stroke of idle thoughts and fatigued whims. She moved from summit to cave, from cave to buried valley, rummaging along the inner workings of covered pine and nestled fir, lingering in exhausted fancies, for all the events, all the sentiments, emboldening her structure, her frame, as of late had bid certain consumption and depletion. Without opportunities to rest, to relax, to fan away from the rancorous edges and the keen, blunt fringes (a stolen existence, a locked corridor in a house of mirrors, the vast unknown plunging and possessing, some of the harem’s untimely revolution), her grand forces of nature had suddenly, instantly, depleted. Motions, while rhythmic, held no vigilance – her head lowered, her lids shuttered, and even the wicked, unearthly chill battered against her sides with hardly an inflection of movement; a slow, withering cadence, a bloom closing its petals to awaken another day. What she wouldn’t give for a number of hours spent beneath the moon, dozing with soundless thoughts, with no notions of danger, of treachery or misfortune, with carefree essence, with solid, stoic serenity.

She might have fallen into the embankments, dead asleep, had Imogen not sauntered by her side, chastising in a silent stream of head shaking and unsubtle frowns, chirping every so often to rattle and shake their bond. The promise and potential of the hot springs sweltering in the distance, with their murky haze, with their gentle creeds, with their billowing, foggy puffs of air split into the frigid atmosphere, could provide the Songbird with the endless relief she sought. Out of necessity, for she wouldn’t allow her companion, her bonded, anymore lingering discomfort, the ivory vixen puttered dutifully ahead, nearly blending into the pale stages of the snow, had her tails not twitched and danced in the midnight bliss. Lena followed like a dutiful lamb, shepherded towards tranquility.

As they neared the bounty of warm water, however, they were not alone – someone else had claimed the holy rites before them – and the kitsune’s singular chirrup erupted and emboldened past the Mender’s senses. Her eyes widened back to their usual honeyed, amiable roundness, pressing diligently along the shoal and shore, almost ready to extend her apologies at their intrusion, they could come at a later time, she could find salvation and resolution in another cavern nearby – but as she sketched along the ramparts, recognition quickly dawned. Too much blue, like the ocean, like the sea, like the rush of salty air and the light caresses of bracken foam, caressed her memories; and she remembered the girl from days ago, eager, fervent, then disappeared. To see her again was a wondrous, incandescent surprise, and she sent a vigilant, inaudible pluck of aria bliss towards her beloved kitsune for rendering the meeting possible. Thereafter, her mind no longer quite so cloudy, quite so bogged into an abyss, the curls of her smile lifted across her lips, bright, merry, forgoing all the toils and trials crossed over her frame like scars of the deceitful, of the specious. Meandering on the bank, she pressed one hoof closer to the rising, churning heat, and provided a sonnet of song. “Tiamat! It’s so nice to see you again!” She meant every word, every phrase, every syllable. “I trust you’re well?” Older, perhaps, as though she’d seen more of the world on her travels (and though the pressing queries meshed through Lena’s mind: where had she gone? What had she seen? What made her return?, none of them were given voice). And before she could fall dead on her feet, because some mercurial portion of her limbs had long since threatened to give out, she finessed a singular request. “May I join you?”

@[Tiamat]

Tiamat’s smile was like the calm before and after a storm, and it calmed Lena’s tribulations, failures, and marks of disappointment, fanning and extending kindness where it was so often misshapen and distorted. Her eagerness, her fervency, her ardor in the moonlight’s embrace, caused the Songbird’s to thrive, and she snagged and embraced every ounce, every nuance, of the heavenly vouchers, warm eyes peering down into the refreshing expanse and expressing all her delights, all her tenderness and compassion in a singular, singsong movement. While Imogen remained on the bank, settling and curling on one of the hot rocks, Lena rummaged through her bones and muscles and sinew for the yearning stretch of motion, casting it in a whisper’s breadth, following the flicker, the balms, the wonder of the water, bestowing the softest, lightest sigh of contentment as she slid into its hold. Her muscles immediately commenced in utter joy, relaxing, unwinding, unbending, rejoicing in the heat and gentleness, the sugared, whimsical air, the bestowal of more than just luminous, radiant sentiments, but a friend too, returned home from the outskirts, the fringes, of other lands and worlds. She extended her muzzle towards the cerulean mare’s proffered maw, shared sanguine depths and seraphic resolutions, smiling and grinning despite the world’s impact across her hide, along her mind; scars were left behind for the sake of a renewed companionship. The nymph wanted shared rapture and reveries, wanted peace and salvation and absolution through all the follies, all the trials, all the bestial claims of sin and nefariousness, and to see Tiamat well, to see her glowing, flowing, with insistent rapture was enough for a lifetime of reveries.

So when the inevitable query danced and twirled from the sea mare’s mouth, it blistered and scorched despite its well-meaning velocity; the Mender’s smile faded for a few seconds, slipping away, down into the reaches of the springs, and she remained in an interval of chiseled silence, unsure how to answer, how to proceed, without lying or planting deceitful wares. In some ways, the realm had treated her with kindness and beneficence, she’d been given a rank, she hadn’t been taken away by darkness, by disease, and she lived. But all those things in between, even recently, bore a shadow across her brow, wove callousness and derision through her chest – because she’d been stolen trying to fight for her herd, she’d been set on fire trying to find a way to protect her friends, and she’d been thrown into a prison of reflecting glass because of her compassion, her devotion, for another.

Maybe the young Tiamat wouldn’t see the burn marks still layered on her frame, faded with time, but still always there, illustrating foolish adventures and wanton hopes, dreams, and fantasies, that everything had a price and magic was not without its vices; her ruminations ceased on her perennial grin, floating back again, regained and renewed, a series of pretenses she hoped no one could see beneath. “They’ve been fair.” Not a lie, not an untruth, but a glossed over version of all the horrors, all the nightmares, and then the aspirations come to fruition – perhaps, if the other femme pressed more, she’d be given a story or two, a gift for the taking, but everything else was so tightly grasped, so clenched, in secrets and cloaks and daggers – old habits dying hard. Instead of withering into further melancholy, the femme’s smile radiated, pouring into the gentle air, into the intertwining of chill and warmth, cordial, malleable, silken canvas and satin softness, an exchange of croons, murmurs, and inquiries. “How were your travels?”

@[Tiamat]

Words she yearned to speak, troubles she craved to find answers for, choked, stifled, and slithered down her throat, then stilled. Cornered against her inhibitions, her reserve, her tendency to drown out the suffering, the afflictions, with mercy, with compassion, with forgiveness, led her into the taut follies of silence; never reaching beyond the slim providence of her smile. She didn’t sing songs of strife or misfortune, maladies or afflictions, wouldn’t be courting her own warbling tunes of sorrow to share with the world – and how fair would it be, to lance and scorch the broad, beautiful innocence of Tiamat’s charms? Why should she lose the sheen from her eyes? Why should she be burdened with the licentious, capricious whims of creatures and cretins? Why should she be burned by the actions of others? Why should she know the weight of brutality, the glancing blow of barbarity? The selfishness, the disturbing will of others, how they scraped, how they scorched, how they mauled and mutilated without reason? Undeserving, unmerited, any ghosts, any tales, any wraiths peeking from her lips, from her brow, from her frame, were smothered and tarnished, meant for self-perusal, and not the winking, gliding arts of a child bending into tranquility, into serenity. Lena couldn’t take that away from her.

Then a phantom whispered in her ear, in her mind, in her thoughts, and wondered when she’d lost all of simplicity, all of her purity, all of her guiltlessness – and maybe it was days, months, years before wandering into Helovia, tossed aside, forgotten, managing to learn of conquering despair, of unraveling hope, when none had been left for her. When she’d been forgotten, misplaced, abandoned, she should have rotted, withered, and decayed, but each moment was spent spreading her roots, gathering her strength, stretching and unwinding until she seemed to blossom instead of bleed.

The Songbird stared at the youth, full of hope, full of beneficence, full of promise, and pondered when she’d somehow lost hers (in the woods, in the wars, in the fire, in the mirror – or was it taken bit by bit, anguish by anguish?). But looking, embracing, becoming enchanted by Tiamat’s earnestness, by her curiosity, by her insatiable desire to embark through the world with a grin, with a heart free of contempt and temptation, was enough to forge amidst and against her melancholy, to strike upon its ugly, disturbing features, to cast it away for the sheen of this hour spent with a friend. She didn’t weep, she didn’t sob, she didn’t cry (though for some reason, she’d liked to have broken down, let it wash off in the warm splendor of the hot springs), continued to smile and listen to the femme of the sea. She fought against the repose, then breathed deeply, infused the remnants of her elegance into its opulence, blew tender puffs of air towards the blue belle and Imogen’s careful, watchful gaze, transfixed and awakened, broadening past the earth and the leaves and the sky.

Her voice belies the void of her thoughts, the grind, the friction, of emotion darkening her mind, a catalyst of beatific, kind surrender as she slid further into their generous spirits, remembering the fortitude of peace and contentment, however brief, however minute. “I have. Nothing can tear me away from the mountains.” She winked, allowing a soft flutter of her stare to land upon the peaks, the valleys, the caverns nestled in between, heart stirred and amiss, then landing back upon Tiamat all over again. “I did become a Time Mender! It was quite an honor.” The sparrow flushed, recalling the day, where promise and prowess seemed absolutely infinite – and secured her attentions all the more to the sea-girl, to the cry of her gulls or the mere serene nature of her existence, suddenly, completely, gratified to have the other near her, comforting and beautiful. “We’re happy to have you in our midst again. May all your paths lead you back to the ice and snow.” She winked once more, because it felt right, not meddling, not prying, but simply remaining, chiseled and sculpted amongst the glamour, the prestige, the power and might of their empire – and suddenly, like a burst of boldness, she ventured closer, further, grinned and bore the weight of so many things all at once, sliding from all her seclusions and nightmares. “What was the favorite part of your journey?”

@[Tiamat]

The sparrow rejoiced in her friend’s ebullience, keened and revered the particles, segments, and portions of her pulsing from the beneficent entanglement – a precious art, a gracious gift. The ocean mare’s shell smiles and gull movements, motions swirled from sea foam and enlightened on rolling, tumbling, regaling waves, pushed the demonic traces, the exhausted folds, the feeble, fickle whims away from Lena’s capricious mind, reminded, ignited, incensed over the fanciful, delightful foibles of an evening’s end. Exuberance tangled with kindness, tenderness traced angst, swallowed it in one mighty gulp, and she was left with the fleeting notions and nuances of fairy ambiguity, with lights, with serenity, with tranquility heightened across their wintry sanctum. She breathed out the burdening conjectures and the tired, strained, tainted filaments, swam amongst the sanguine, the swan promenade, the virtuous, fine decibels, and became ensconced and enthralled, christened and anointed, enchanted and enamored. She shared her delights, her acknowledgements, “Thank you!,” with a grin enshrouding all the blackening veils covering her eyes, with a harpsichord relief shining and shimmering past the malicious layers and the immoral bracken, fixating upon the femme’s story and reveling in its wake.

Surviving her storm of emotions, unrelenting and smoldering, the nightingale’s fixations rendered along a mythos of fathers and tempests, seas and tides, Poseidon tridents and ample, unrelenting faith, kindled, rendered, and completed by mere conviction. Tiamat’s tale was ravishing, a captivating, resonating stance on the power of their beliefs, and Lena’s thoughts only drifted slightly towards the world beyond Helovia, stumbling against the knit pathways of her past – how there was naught for her along those walls, within those trees, how everything she ever wanted, ever needed, was here, how through all the years of straining, of tying together loose knots, of desperate, wanton, craving for a life, for a purpose – she’d found it, nestled between glaciers and ice, across rime and powder, laughing, playing, dancing beneath auroras and tirades. And because she had nowhere else to go, nothing else to seek, a moment of inquiry slipped past her lips, taut and emboldened, curious and indulgent, gliding across the hot spring’s innate warmth, skittering and scheming along the frigid air. “What a beautiful story. Is it difficult to yearn for another place?” Her head tilted in divine speculation – but wondered, pondered, if she had felt the longing before: when they’d lost, when they’d been defeated, when they’d wandered away from cliffs, from mist, from sea colliding with rock, and into the follies of the Steppe. Now – hadn’t the pining long since been replaced?

Before she fell too deep down the rabbit hole of musing and discernment, the Mender was regaled into a further sense of duty; Tiamat’s excitement was contagious all over again, and the liberation, the bloom, the blossoming of prowess and promise dove into honeyed, dulcet benedictions all over again – her curious smile glossed into an angelic gleam, unwavering, proud, strong and stalwart. “Of course!” She maneuvered closer, streaming through the water as a naiad, as an element, a fixture, of its essence (but never more than the mare before her, meant for lush springs and siren songs), until they were shoulder-to shoulder, head to head, blue pearl with sienna songbird, pressing ambitions in hushed tones and well-wishing sonnets. “Is there something in particular you wish to know? Herbs? How to seek healing magic?”

@[Tiamat]

She might have been immediately haunted by guilt, by shame, for inspiring discontentment in her friend’s soul, had Tiamat not been obliging, accepting, and inspiring. The Mender’s eyes were fastened, fixated, and riveted upon the younger mare’s strength and perseverance, her whimsical tales, her ties and trebles with the elements – all the dazzling figures, all the satin dreams, still waiting, still ignited, for her grace and elegance. Lena obliged the widest grin for her companion, imagined them as two luminescent beacons amongst the hallowed grails and the holy armaments, strung together by lace and taffeta and silk, steel beneath the dulcet marrow, strength and fortitude beyond the smiles and the jubilee. She clung gratefully to her friend now, in the depths and denizens of pondering, awakening, piercing fortitudes, where the evening hours dipped and scorched, they burned so brightly, so vividly, against the darkening abyss – none of the Stygian hues, none of the catacomb webs, none of the deceitful, nefarious ripples could touch upon them as they were now – tender, warm virtues of benediction and beneficence. Dazzled and spellbound, her eyes stole across the mountainside and the flurries of brilliant snow, the tucked away avenues of icy parlors and chilling corridors, across to where Imogen slunk by the hot springs, batting at naught. Like some singsong harmony, she continued in the heartfelt rhapsody, added to the bliss, to the sonnets, to the wayward stretches of poetry and lyrics, stanzas to their conversation, to their abyss, to their home, to their land, to their empire. “Your father sounds more and more wonderful,” something within her chest hurt, and before she could think any more of it, she continued on, honeyed stare flicking over the widened chambers of caverns and icicle eaves, “and I think we’re all fortunate to have the Basin. We’re honored to be in the hold of so much resilience. We must do our very best to preserve it.” Here she laughed, then tucked her head towards her chest and nestled a wink in Tiamat’s direction, obliging and indulgent. “I’m so glad you’re here.” A friend, a companion, a confidante, was a valuable piece Lena always longed to have, but never seemed to fully grasp (either they disappeared, they changed, or forgot about her, thought nothing more of her bird songs or her charitable musings). The ocean femme’s presence was a bounty she could appreciate over and over again.
 
But then they mused towards mending, and she fixed a steady breath within her lungs, didn’t glance towards her companion as the fox arched a cunning brow, listening intently as Tiamat proclaimed her wishes. The enthusiasm was caught and coiled around her words, her phrases, buoying away darker sentiments and lending the wild, untamed bits of excitement laden about the nymph’s decorum; she twittered like a finch, like a sparrow, grinning and divining, conspiring and plunging. On a whisper, on a whim, on a blade of winter air, she chose to weave her own grace and finesse - granting, giving everything the mermaid yearned for. “I asked the Gods for my healing magic. The Sun God accepted my wishes and bestowed me with a quest. Perhaps, if there’s a way you wish to channel and harness your powers, you might be able to do the same?” Here she paused, fixed her gaze on the pool of water they stood within, recalling the instances all from memory (bowing to the stones, to the fiery deity, singing until Deodat’s battered body became whole), and providing the femme with them thereafter. “For instance, I can mend by song. You might choose an element to help you in the task.” She nodded towards the water, pondered and wondered over how she might implement the liquid to cure ailments and restore those wounded – but permitted the answer to come to Tiamat, for it was not the sylph’s place to ascribe her to one thing or the other. The femme would have to make her own journey, but Lena could provide several pathways for her to try. Her eyes glanced back upon the blue frame tucked next to her, gallant and regal, poised and eager. “As for learning to soothe without magic, perhaps you would like to join the rest of the healers for a herb gathering trip? We’ll be traveling amongst the open lands.”

@[Tiamat]

  Like muses, inspired by the contortions, the twists, the turns of nature, they absorbed and nurtured the information pressed amidst their wisdom, their sagacity. Lena, amused and diverted, watched as the sea girl processed everything given to her – absorbing and entertaining, ravishing the precious tokens and objects anointed towards her frame – and it was a wondrous thing, to witness another learn and interact with a newfound piece of knowledge. The Mender’s smile couldn’t grow any more, tender and reverential, gleaming towards the sparks of indulgence and marveling at the scales and rationale they’d provided one another. She soaked in the admiration and continued giving forth her own, hoping they could continue their delightful discourse, either now or in the future, when more of their education had been incensed and conjured. Every day was an experience, every hour an opportunity to kindle, grow, and blossom. The Songbird wouldn’t dare to have any of them wasted. “I’m not sure many of us do,” she laughed, light and ethereal, slinking her thoughts towards the Gods and all their enigmas, mysteries, exploits, and disasters (she didn’t dare mention the tales and toils of the latest fold, when the Moon Goddess had used another as naught more than a pawn to commit murder), or the method for some of their quests (she’d been burned, burned, burned alive, acquiring danger for a taste, for a chance of delivering barbarity to others). She didn’t want to dissuade the mare from her pursuits, and if she crafted from water, she may have better luck with the Earth God’s easygoing, gentle veneer. “I’m sure you’ll be successful in whatever you choose.” Her grin, so bright, so easygoing, retained its luminescent fixtures, even as she glanced towards Imogen, and knew their hour was at its end; Tiamat had been a welcome intervention and distraction from the roughened pathways of her thoughts, and she was grateful for the warmth of the springs and the delight of a friend. To know there would be more opportunities, more chances, for them to converse, chat away the evening or the day, gave Lena all the more hope for the future – naught could be cold, haunting, or alarming with Tiamat nearby. “You’re very welcome – and thank you for your time as well.” She drifted away, lifted herself out of the springs, out of the blessed heat and the consecrated hallows of the ocean mare’s comfort, and shook the droplets away from her coat (Imogen may have growled a little when pelted with several drops, and Lena muffled a brief laugh). Her tunes drew back to the femme before she was whisked away, back into the breadth of Frostfall and the winter air, bestowing a promise and an oath. “See you in the Heavenly Fields!”