She whistled in the wind, part of Birdsong and part of winter, flickering away the wiles of dust and snow and burdens, folding past the fountains of warmth and radiance, casting her eyes away from the melted paragons of arcane ice. Like a torch, like a flame, like a bird scattering its bells, its tunes, its notes, she fluttered and flickered, drawn over the ebb and flow of seasons, tracing along the foundations of ancient stone and carved rubble, channeling the finesse of pebbles and monoliths; admiring their solidity, their grace. She drank in the alteration of vestiges and temperatures, dazzled by the embossed horizon and the shimmering sunrise, watching the waves of dark, Stygian hues give way to gold, amused by the ethereal breaths, by the puff of clouds, by the distant peaks and valleys never touched, never tainted. Only thereafter did she find herself meandering and wandering through the tundra, beckoning and clambering for new sonnets and stanzas, serenading the whims and world with her voice, her hymns, her laughter, sprinkling it throughout the dew and trying to match the flying warbles as they poised and danced over her ears. Sometimes, she sketched over the tiny leaflets and the miniature petals, only plucking a few for a promised garden and a glowing sanctuary, smiling, grinning, to herself and to the trees, gathered in their veils and their masks and their guardianship. The little, slender nymph likely would have stayed the morning entrusted and enfolded in the rush of the sublime, chasing after forgotten stars and longlost banners, pondering over the riches of spring and the Hades’ hold of winter, had her ivory kitsune not come bounding through the tall grasses and the spun shade, chirping, enthusiastic, launching over spider webs and clawing at roots.
 
Summons! her fox voice sprang between their connection, and the mare’s brow arched in inquisition, for there was no outcry of calamity, no hellish throng of alarm, no monsters in the keep, and no panic whittled across the vixen’s features. Had something else gone awry? Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and Imogen only grinned a familiar, cunning exposition, so the sylph, the fairy, the fey, was forced to follow with hardly any information and only the most precarious of queries. Armed with herbs and petals, she joined the lingering march across frost and dew, fixing her stare upon Imogen’s pale tails ghosting through narrow trails or the beings nestled in the distance.
 
Her pace increased with her curiosity, maneuvering and coasting upon the breeze and the call of finches, brushing past the lake and hot springs, as she came to realize the gilded Lord and the sea-girl were waiting outside the healers’ cave – perhaps where she might have been, had she not been Romani and lured by beguiling sights, wondrous sounds. The mare’s approach was made with polite, genuine rapture, bobbing her head downwards towards Thranduil and the lovely Tiamat, extending a gracious harks over the sweeping tides of Birdsong. “Good morning, Lord Thranduil, Tiamat.” The beam of inquiry bloomed and blossomed along her tongue, and she dearly would’ve loved to search and pry and guess over the reasons for the visit, but was restless at the sight of the ocean maiden, suddenly reminded of a notion she’d had in mind. “How lovely to see you – I’d actually intended to seek you out today,” and her smile grew along the incline of her lips towards the blue-hued femme, before dipping her attention back towards the sovereign, ever unsure of his intentions. He caught her off-guard in the strangest of ways, but she could never truly understand why or how; perhaps he was made of too much wile, too much guile, too much of everything in between. “You needed me, sir?”

Lena’s focus swung from one to the next, paying heed first to the Lord, nearly arching a brow at his request, but betraying none of the queries flooding her mind. Instead, they were inward, pulsing, ringing bells of confusion and befuddlement, for Thranduil was certainly one of the last creatures she’d presumed to yearn for any healing knowledge. Perhaps she’d been mistaken in her claim of his nature? Truly, she didn’t know him well – saw his structure at meetings, off in the distance as he recruited newcomers, keeping herself at a distance from his sharp-witted ways and uncanny stare. He’d always appeared shrewd, astute, catching duplicitous desires, matching them to his own will, embarking on deceptive charades – she’d never forget the moment she’d first met him, peeling the pelt away from a wolf’s carcass. The sylph didn’t know what to make of his smile, of his outreach, of his attempts at kindness, pondering over what he hid behind his veil, how far he intended to take on the world, or if she had merely delved far too deep into rudeness and presumptions. Imogen snorted, and Lena shot her one emboldened look, before glancing back towards the gilded sovereign, presenting him with more smiles, reassurances, and token beneficence. “Of course. I'd be happy to oblige!” Sweet, chipper, she threaded along their frames, coasting back into the sun-dried cave, where some of the herbs still lurked from their long winter. Grabbing hold of a few, the Songbird nestled them within her maw and returned swiftly to their sides, laying them neatly at Thranduil’s feet as if they were reverential items, gifts from the Magi. In a way, each of them held their own stature, strength, and generosity; whether or not Thranduil longed for their secrets, or held another ambition for them was left to be seen. “I’m sure Tiamat would like to assist?” Here, her smile shifted to an overwhelming grin and the sylph bestowed a generous wink, casting her benevolence through the uncertainty, the clamor, of uneasy ties and intriguing appeals. “In fact…,” her voice grew a bit more wily, harboring a touch of Imogen’s foxy inclinations, emboldening her melody into a more audacious fervor, a glimmer of pride, a luminescent beam of convictions and covenants. “Tiamat has grown and learned so much, with your permission my lord, I’d like to promote her to one of our Medics.” The glimpse of her eyes arced complete faith and confidence in the sea-mare, with her shelled adherence, with her gull fixations, with her powerful, potent, buoyed hope, as strong as the tides, as wonderful as the waves. 

The apprehension shuddered away as they lapsed back into the fold of healing, of mending, of equilibrium and serenity, the havens of sanctuaries, sanctums, and compassionate skills. Though she couldn’t fathom the roots of Thranduil’s earnestness, the Mender didn’t refuse him the notion of knowledge or wisdom, the arts of sages or the folds of their invocations – and her smile, ever warm, ever present, widened as Tiamat took to the nature, the rites, the notions and sentiments of their trade. A sense of pride in her friend buoyed her senses, made her heart gleam, shimmer, beat with joy, delight, and beatific refrain, content for a companion who’d polished her skills, who’d tried and tried and tried, who was led by determination and resolution, but never condemnation or contempt. A rare being in their midst, funneled and brewed and structured beyond the savagery of war or the distaste of rancor, not channeled by bitterness or flanked by outrage; perhaps Tiamat was the paragon of virtue, and should’ve been placed on a pedestal for her reverent qualities. The nymph, the fairy, tilted her head in a signature of ambience, whispered holy vows through the declarations and acceptance, murmuring a delicate thread dipped in strength and vigilance, “You deserve it,” winking back into the fold and stepping aside to allow the sea girl her moments of rapture and sagacity. They listened, they revered, they captured the snippets and bits of importance, emboldened and gratified all the more that her decision had been completely, wholly, in the right: Tiamat had spent her days studying and scrutinizing, ensuring success in her ventures. Her grin never faded, remained chiseled and bright and irrepressible in the powerful snippets of the ocean maiden’s speech, ushering herself forward with another herb when the other girl had finished, brushing her maw over the dainty petals of a yellow, almost daisy-like flower nestled between stems and brush. “This is arnica,” and then her eyes focused upon Thranduil, the golden, gilded Lord and all his tales, all his myths, all his fabrications, wondering how and why their good-notions would be used (and a warning almost flashed between them, a brief, fleeting granule of her distinction, her capability, her capacity, her talents beyond the grandeur of sonnets and stanzas – and she couldn’t explain why the sensation rippled within her at all), before bestowing her attention back upon the sunflower-resembling plant. “You can use the roots and flowers to treat any bruises, aches, or pains. They’re especially handy after spars or battles.”