The morning vestiges slinked and slithered along a tapestry of sunlight patches, hovering and cajoling along the entrance of the cave, then lingering on the walls, sprinkled across a few herbs sent to dry in its mystique. The Songbird wandered in and out of the radiance, shuffling here and there with a hum gliding from between her lips, serenading the darkness, the light, the columns of balance in between. The fairy’s actions were habitual, gleamed from seasons of the same, gliding on muscle memory and ardent regimes, fluttering this way and that for a spell, for an invocation, for a plucking of wisdom and sagacity. She reached for a bundle of plants and moved them elsewhere, studying their roots, their leaves, awaiting the day they could be more than just catalogued (when the greenhouse was finished and its glassy exterior protected them all, aided the growing process, so once one was found, they could plant it and it’d be anew again and again), surveyed, or obtained. Imogen bounced along the cold floor, batting at fallen wisps, following in the midst of absolution – they were all worthy distractions and deterrents from melancholy and desolation. Lena enjoyed the art of her occupation, especially when it afforded and proffered her whole attention. There were no ghosts here, swallowing and consuming the flora and fauna, no gloomy figures, no war mongers, no illustrious fiends – just tokens of healers, waiting for their moment to shine.
 
The nymph had placed one more towards the back of the cavern when she heard Mortuus Nox at the aperture, returning from the expedition she’d given him all that time ago. But he’d persevered instead of faltered, triumphed instead of stumbled, given up, or whined; he’d accepted his task with determination and diligence, and for that alone, the notion should’ve been triumphed. A smile appeared on the corners of her lips and she lowered the last blossom she’d been holding, placing it beside its brethren, before adhering to the summoning, the beckoning throng, towards the shimmering light of day. Imogen puttered along, curious and inquisitive, basking between legs and shifting her tails, while Lena’s attention segmented solely to the sable Nox and his wares. Her eyes fixated on his, tiara offering a humble bow, and solidifying her inquiry upon the plants strewn before him – some she’d never seen, known, or heard about. How interesting! One resembled a stem, pulsing, beating, with ichor like their own (she might have guessed where it’d been obtained, because she’d been amongst the chords of running blood), and the others were captivating in their own right and light; little berries promising strange fortunes. Her voice chimed, mellifluous and serene, along the layers of sand, snow, and sun, basking in the worthiness of his achievements. “Congratulations! How did you fair?” Head tipped, studying, examining, gaze scrutinizing the prizes he’d managed to discover, before shifting back to him again, gaze bright and full of wonder, curiosity, exalting the fabric of their movements and motions; always a healer, a reasoned, a mender, eager to assuage the broken. “What did you find?”

  Attention rapt and dutiful, her eyes wandered to each plant as the fellow healer spoke, leaning closer and closer to study the complex ruminations and enigmas layered within their stems, their stalks, their leaves, their bright, ambient tresses. The first was quite intriguing; she hadn’t imagined such an herb existed, almost a contradictory force, pulsing out ichor but maintaining sustenance, vitamins, minerals, a mighty, stalwart material suitable for not only their warriors, but for everyone else in between. How amazing it would be for mothers who had a difficult labor, for tired, labored crafters and engineers, for spies unwilling to give in to their cloaks and daggers, but requiring nourishment for the long road ahead. “What a discovery!” She whispered, enamored and nodding in agreement over the difficulty of finding such a delicacy (and to think it’d been obtained in the heart of monsters, demons, and fallen Gods, as if born from all the death, decay, and ruin). The next was also intriguing, meant for those with feathers, fronds, wings, and plumes, rebuilding, reweaving, fragile, snapped layers; and she smiled in response (either to its existence or his recommendation of not traversing to the Rip Tide Isles, because she already had seasons before). Then to the last, like ice, like particles of the Basin itself, a calming, wholesome agent, returning others to equable, unflustered temperaments. How many could enjoy its use here, where tensions sometimes ran high and emotions were reeling, where dramatics could escalate and violence could obliterate in a matter of moments (and as a joke, she and Imogen shared a silent giggle at the possibility of passing the plant around during the next herd meeting).
 
When he’d finished, she smiled all over again, grin wide, enveloping, endeavored and wholesome, content and impressed. He’d gone to the ends of the earth, he’d gone to great lengths, and he’d accomplished the tasks laid out before him without complaint. The sweet notations of her words flowed in deliverance and rhapsody, truth and reverence. “I’m proud of you.” Her eyes flickered back down to the herbs again, admiring their abilities, their practicality, and their future, foretold uses. “These herbs will help so many of our brethren. I’m sure we can keep and grow them in the greenhouse when it’s completed.” The nymph nodded again, confirming her beliefs, daring anyone to abolish them. “Well done, Mortuus.” Thereafter, the nymph glanced back to him, this great, large beast who’d once announced demons contorted and controlled his sentiments, his notions – now toiling away at herb gardens and tending to those wounded, broken, and decrepit. He was inspiring, truly, for the way he’d committed to altering, changing, and morphing the way he looked at things, for not allowing oblivion to swallow him whole, drag him down into the depths. He ought to be commended for all these efforts, trials, and tribulations. It’d been no easy feat, but she knew, she realized, his oaths and assurances were molded, sculpted, deep down in his marrow, solid, tangible, a force in the north. “I think you’ve earned the right to be considered a Medic.” If at all possible, her voice grew merrier, her smile bloomed broader, and the very nature of her soul blossomed a little brighter at the thought of one more blessed beacon amidst the snow and ice. “Do you accept?”