Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

Intricate and defined, cordial and regal, they set out into the void with a song on their lips and a tune in their heart. There were no true intentions in their step, no pursuit worth chasing, only a gentle, dulcet clamor of stanzas, sonnets, and reverie – a clamor of calm and composure. Lion-hearted and blooming in the winter’s vestiges, they gathered rue and decadence, striking out against the eldritch incantations of another season, another time, and draped every inch of melancholy, every burst of haunting, poignant damnation into pockets of radiance. They bestowed art in rapture, in reverie, in defiance against darkening whims and sinful caprice, veiled in taffeta, in sacred, reverent silk, in satin expressions and gilded tresses, curling over land, foam, mountain valley and oeuvres to stand, stare, and pause in a minuet’s delight. Together, fox and Songbird, kitsune and swallow, they coiled amidst hollowed corridors and shackled lines, embraced sanctuaries and interludes, weathered storms and forgotten caresses, drinking in the warmth of the sun and the melodies rustled from memories. Tied by knots and laced by labyrinths, they became intangible figures guided by wind and spirit, by determination and sanguine shades, by the ebb and flow of mystical choreography, by the arch and surge of power, by the bright, startling dominions. With no rhyme, no reason, for their strides and cadence, the world was theirs for the taking – sparkling and sizzling, cold and chilling, slumbering and effervescent, cajoling past frozen streams and resolute drifts, basking in the delight of dawn, in the rolling abyss of absolute nothingness. No weight on their shoulders, no tainted cords strangling their movements; all motion was ethereal and unearthly, melting into air, into finite granules of harmonies and symphonies, lavished in the cordial spring of another day, another hour, blessed and beneficent.
 
Drawn, enticed, and allured by the beguiling art of seasons before, their eyes latched onto the kaleidoscope canvas, the dazzling array of bright, unfettered hues shirking over worn, archaic marble. Lena breathed in the lush, distant quiet, the serene, tranquil plumes, watching her breath curl and puff beneath the rotunda’s smooth edges and ancient beauty. She laughed, once or twice, to listen to the resounding echo, the bounce and twirl of life stirred amidst hushed snowflakes and muffled sounds, to remember the way she’d once delighted in a world, to recall, to recollect, what it was like to feel alive, untouched, untamed, not taken and disheveled by cruelty, villainy, and injustice. Imogen provided the same, chirping and delving into merriment, into silliness, until both were united in song, in gentle, lilting tunes, and the winter birds resounded from their perches, and the chimes were hallowed, holy, virtuous and right.

Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

They hastened to the walls, to the finery, to the blessings bestowed like moths to a flame, singing and dancing, a merry, whimsical art poised beneath layers of hues and incandescent colors. When they were softened by amber existence, the pair parted and rejoined in a lacquer of blue, springing into a waltz when red flared along skin, circling when lavender touched the edges of their soul. As gold glistened, as green heightened, as chimes whistled and the wind curled, they leaned into the simple essence of reality, of unraveling hopes, of adorned dreams, of silly, triumphant laughter floating past rime and stone, past marble and columns. Two fairies, two spirits, two nymphs, gliding in and amongst archaic designs and ancient history; lending stories, sharing tales, creating myths and legends to be stored along the nothingness.
 
Another’s appearance hastened them to a stop, the fragile, delicate, merry tangibility snapped. The Songbird’s ears perked at the familiar tune, however, and just like that, the snippets of frail niceties and capricious melodies seemed to be conjured all over again. They simmered through her daggers and along her frame, maneuvering past all the heartache, all the strains, all the dastardly, unholy requiems, and smoldered along her flesh – ignited and effervescent. Her grin, so smothered as of late, widened and grew in Tiamat’s presence, as if the other fae were capable of bestowing and renewing charms, sunlight, delight, sweetness, and tender, generous warmth. Lena closed the bounding gap, advancing towards her friend, drawn and hastened by the beam of affability that would always be the shelled mare (how did she have such an illustrious heart still, after living within war and bloodshed, within licentiousness and iniquity?). “Tiamat! How nice to see you!” she called over the threshold of rock and ruin, proffering a satin glimmer, a soft, dulcet croon, amidst the excitement bubbling in her heart. Imogen played the same game, tethered by absolutely nothing, dancing in white plumes from the veils of shadows and stirring restless chirps near Lena's forelegs.
 
She leaned into her touch, granted an embrace in return, lowering her crown over the other femme’s withers and tugging her close. It was peaceful, it was sublime, to have a friend near her – with no follies, with no afflictions – to simply be. Tiamat, perhaps unbeknownst to her, was a great, grand comfort, because she glowed in virtue, because she was a part of so many things the Songbird had forgotten, lacked, or left behind. She was everything the Mender had hoped she could be, but tossed aside.
 
The nymph should’ve been blinded by Tiamat’s brightness, by her glowing, untarnished vivacity, but instead, she folded into it, drawing away from their hug and encompassing the rich, whole candor of stalwart, valorous endeavors. “I’m fine,” she extended, because fine didn’t delve and strike, it foamed into an endless charade of possibilities, glossing over sadness, over stupidity, over ineffectuality. The smile, still undaunted by the shades of Tiamat’s radiance, conjured her own query. “And you? What have you been up to?”

Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

They matched in cordiality, in sketching and tracing politeness to avoid further inquiry. Lena didn’t know if Tiamat was troubled or vexed by anything in particular – if she’d managed to find herself consumed by all the trials and tribulations floating through the heretical voids – but if anything had simmered up to the sea girl’s surface, the Mender would’ve gladly proffered her guidance. Instead, they hid. The healer knew it was easier to remain furtive, specious, and simplistic: to smile, to grin, and to share a laugh instead of toil amongst the plaguing nettles and thorns. Her burdens were just that, hers, and she had no inclination of shoving the cumbersome load onto anyone else’s shoulders. She’d rise, she’d fall, she’d stumble and falter her way through the tapestries and divinations of determination, of defiance, then settle back into her roots again (if there were any still there, not cracked, not brittle, not broken and chipped away). It was a cyclical embrace of hardships, nothingness, and everything in between. Sometimes the circumstances simply hurt more.

But she twinkled, she played, she glowed in Tiamat’s presence (for what else could she do but follow the joy, the ebullience?), softening and igniting, brilliant and gilded, shifting beneath the kindled hues and the sway of colors. “Where else have you wandered?” The Songbird laughed and winked, extending a warm rhapsody of movement, motion, and music through the sublime rotunda, feasting her eyes on its untold musings, wishing it could provide her with some heavenly wares to set aside in her heart. Her eyes watched as the other, full of delight and mirth and merriment, breezed along the walls and stone works, altering colors as she strode under the rounded top, gazing past the mysteries and enigmas, being honored in the glory, in the exotic relish, of this enchanted world.

Lena had been here before, but she didn’t say why. She didn’t tell about another moment mired in misery and stupidity – when she’d chased after fire so that it scorched her soul, so that she could gain more power, more prowess, more precision to protect her people (and nearly burned away herself; smoldering on the ocean with Roland nearby). She didn’t say that she’d watched the silent marble from afar, as she dove into the depths of the garden pond beyond the walls, as she tried to ease the suffering she’d only put upon herself.

The fey simply proffered what little knowledge she had of the subject while glancing at the tranquility, the repose, the sanctuary brought to them. Her voice was quiet and serene, as if trying not to disturb the ancient, arcane secrets and archives. “I don’t think so. It was here before the Rift events.” She remembered because she had ruined many things far before the monsters and Gods had warred upon newfound lands. “What do you suppose it’s for?” She mused aloud, granting the kindness, the benevolence, and merry charity back upon Tiamat (was it worry, apprehension, in the girl’s expression?).

Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

The Mender listened and watched as fascination and awe rolled along Tiamat’s features – she stood hushed and still, afraid to break the reverence. It had been a long time since Lena had committed to any kind of worship, sanctity, or conviction to a land outside her own: her blessings, prayers, and oaths were always for the mountains, ice, and snow. There were always so many others things binding her attention away from the lands themselves, and along the actions displayed there – war, persecution, dying breaths. It was intriguing to watch the other young mare bask in the glow and glory of another world, as if she’d never been in the depths of something so sacred, so wonderful, and Lena’s gaze scattered from hue to hue, from stone to stone, gazing at the mixture of work and benedictions. She pondered, likely just as the sea maiden did, to how and why the structure was built, who could’ve fostered such a task, and the depths it’d gone to endure such labor. The nymph soon followed the footsteps of strangers and friends, wandering over the marble columns, pressing her maw into various cracks and crevasses, feeling the cool, earthen materials along her skin. They were fascinating, alluring things, and she peered over them one by one, not comprehending anything but wonder and delight, imagining great, grand disciples of the gods building huge towers and wide carillons, bells echoing over utopian escapes, peace, solidarity, sanctuary from the likes of famine and violence…
 
Her thoughts must have faded off, eager to delve into reverie and contentment instead of disaster and ruin, for no sooner had Imogen chirped and Tiamat spoke, she found herself faced with melodic queries. Have you been everywhere? Oh, she’d been to many places, but not likely everywhere – the world was too wide, too grand, too massive to have explored every nook and cranny. “I don’t think so.” She smiled then, carefree despite the aching ruptures of memories scattered amongst her mind. “I’ve been to every herd land, however.” The fairy didn’t go into any details of her adventures – the way the fog drifted or the waves crashed along the World’s Edge, the feeling of the hot sand beneath one’s feet along the Dragon’s Throat, the lush vegetation curling within the Hidden Falls – because all of them had a hidden, haunting poignancy to her travels. She’d lived, then battled amidst the cliffs, she’d gone to take her kinsmen back from the Throat, she’d been abducted into the lairs of the Falls – and perhaps only found true peace in the Basin, behind its cold exterior.
 
Then, Tiamat drew closer, and Lena released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, touching shoulders, smiling, laughing, regaling over things not in her past. It was a time to cherish, not to delve further into the ways she’d struggled. “Maybe someone from the Edge once made it,” she mused, allowing the thought to bubble to the surface, rising along the bright colors and illustrious reflections. “They have Glaziers.” And if it was magical – esteemed and ardent, beautiful and beguiling – wasn’t there still a purpose to its existence? She puzzled over the notion, pushing her lips together in a thoughtful poise, stretching her neck and head upwards to gaze at the shifting blend of shades, tints, and tones. “There must be a reason its here.” The Mender paused, winking at Tiamat again. “Besides for us to admire.”

Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

She didn’t sever her friend’s innocence. She didn’t plague it with nightmares and eldritch titans filled and fueled by hatred, by malice, by incantations of what it was to make war and how anything and everything could be a casualty. Her wounds were just that, hers, and she never intended to mark another with her scars and blemishes. Instead, her eyes focused on the enchantments around them, delving into the realms she’d seen, she’d touched, she’d lived, wandered, or been snared into, the ghost of a smile whispering along her lips, appearing as a fleeting minstrel. “The World’s Edge is beautiful and mysterious, filled with fog, forest, and cliffs. You can always hear the sea striking against the cliffs.” She could imagine it in her dreams, in her longlost ambitions, in days of misspent youth, filled with grins and merriment, then malice and menace. The fay continued weaving her spell without the reasons behind each wraith-ly enthrallment, winking and nodding and laughing at the sea mare, abiding her siren questions and queries, ignoring the pain, torment, and anguish that followed her everywhere (too haunted, even now, incapable of walking away from all her ghosts and phantoms). “The Dragon’s Throat is hot, of course, and covered with sand for miles. Last I saw, they had a lovely oasis. I presume it keeps them nourished.” Then, her gaze drifted to Tiamat and her blessed grin, her ability to see the good, to spin dreams into reality, to conjure peace and absolution even when it seemed so bitterly out of reach – ensuring her smile matched, word for word, even when the Songbird’s memories were scattered with disaster and ruin. “I can’t remember how I got to the Hidden Falls,” (because she’d been maligned, poisoned, knocked aside and dragged there, tossed in amongst the leaves and ferns and vines, incapable of helping her friends and family as they invaded the verdant walls), “but its so vibrant and colorful there! Like a large jungle, complete with waterfalls and heavenly hues.”

The fairy ceased then, watching Imogen bat at the dusty floor, taking time to listen to a lithe femme who only wanted to see the world – and she prayed for her, hoped one day she’d be able to without fault, without petty design, without flaws and failures and heartache. “It is – but given time and patience, I think you’ll see everything you desire.” Her stare wandered to the blend of colors above them, like heavenly auroras, and she sighed. “Isn’t that what makes the world grand – being able to learn from each and every place you’ve seen?”

The discourse shifted to the glass, to the columns, to the marble intricacies of solid enigmas – and she liked that chase far more than the one where she constantly ran and sought after specters. Tiamat’s theory was beautiful and incandescent, so much like herself, and Lena eyed her twinkle, her sparkle, and hoped the shine never faded. “Truly, a wonderful notion, to believe this was a creation of repose and goodwill. Too many things are composed out of avarice.” She nodded, trying to instill her faith and belief in the young mare’s creed, but when asked of her own fantasies, the nymph was entirely unsure. She would’ve craved the serenity, the sanctum, of the blue belle’s constant dedication of a realm of tranquility, but she’d lived too long in shadows and chaos, she’d drifted off course too many times. “What if it was a gift from the Gods? Would they have rewarded mortals for being faithful, for being kind, for being peaceful?” Would they have ever lasted so long without bloodshed, abominations, or ruin? Her head tilted, shaking it once or twice, leaning into the brush of the sea girl’s embrace. Was it so silly to crave those ounces of hope, even now, having seen so many bitter ends?