L E N A
this is a gift, it comes with a price

Here I am, a rabbit heart again. Lena was a mixture of emotions, and she didn’t know which one to feel, which one to trace with her mind, her soul, her body. Rage, fury, wrath? It was an instant recoiling, stewing in the hardened armaments of a once forgotten heritage, boiling and searing, like flames, like embers, dancing in the wicked bolero of her moral entity. For her fallen brethren, for the essences that combined to dissolve a nation determined to absolve their sanctuary. For the broken cadence of hope and wonder that had begun to billow in her chest. For the strength that had pervaded her sentiments, her values, her creation, and her salvation. For the ruthless cataclysm threatening her being, destroying what she’d so carefully harbored, and ultimately, not meaning anything. For the final plunge that meant naught. Sorrow, despair, anguish? For her family, this strange, collection of creatures more kin than those that had given her life, wounded, broken, for a noble cause left to rot. For her serenity, bludgeoned, corrupted and gone astray in the cords of fire, chaos and mayhem. All of these twisting strings plaited a rift in the tranquil space of her essence, coiled and distorted until all that remained was her composure, the calm charade, the stoic façade that she could paint across her features again and again, listless, fatigued, and worn. Ultimately, she’d gone against all she’d ever been, to support, to conquer, to plague amongst a hellish divination, and it had left her with nothing. It hadn’t mattered. She’d sacrificed a portion of herself that she could never regain, and none of it had helped. For a few moments, she’d been a monster, and her gnashing, biting, flailing destruction had brought only a few, scarce seconds of assistance. She’d been incapable. She’d been ineffective, pointless, deficient, and meaningless. Perhaps this was what drove against her the most, flared and incensed her core, battered and rammed along that tranquil edge before diving off the side. That her strength, that her persevering, stalwart presence, had meant very little, had barely scratched the surface of what they’d needed, desired and yearned for. She was insubstantial and inadequate – worthless all over again.

It reminded her of too many things, too many wounds, too many barbs that she’d removed from her wake only to find them attached again. Was she really so useless? Was she really so ineffectual? Was she truly so inept and misguided? What more could she have done? Should she have attacked again and again, lost her head in the timeless wake of villainy, disorder and chaotic rapture – her cranium could rattle on all the misgivings, the paltry steps, and the trifling, empty moves. It refused to offer her comfort and left her reeling in a hollow fixation of desolation, dejection, all over again. How many times she had prospered herself away from this scenery of melancholy, how many hours had she willed herself into a vessel of optimism, compassion and valiancy? Was it all undone now, unlocked, allowed to bubble and froth into these old, simmering wounds? Her eyes lost their spark, their dignity, that warm embrace of sun and benevolence, and withered. She dimmed, radiance sullied, stained, and shattered. Her steps were not light, her motions were not effortless or airy, but shifting, slipping movements that lacked any luster; that craved any light. Even her crown, once so high, once so regal, disassembled hellbound to stare at the ground.

When she finally found her gathering brethren along the frozen innards of the Steppe, they quarreled, bickered, snapping at one another in the haze of loss. She recognized faces, blurs that had been chasing after their opponents, others left to wonder, new and unfamiliar. She listened, but remained silent, not bothering to posture something across her tongue, afraid it would come out as lamenting sob or a broken warble of a once bright bird. In truth, she believed the ice monarch’s words. They would recover, regrow, and prosper, fueled by deprivation, hostility, animosity and vengeance. They would rise, billowing from the ashes of their pride, strength and endurance. But how long would it take? How much more of herself would she sacrifice – and would it do any good this time?