The air sizzled with strife, with gloom, with a sinister nature, and the fairy couldn’t fathom why. She stood at the threshold of their cave, staring out into the twilight, melding and molding her amber eyes to the crescent waves of distress and alarm; listening to the beat of her heart as it pulsed a mighty, stalwart crescendo. Imogen nestled beside her, listening to the void, to the wrath, to the chill simmering along the edges of their walls, and both beings seemed to nearly bristle at the restless winds and the immoral catacombs.
 
The screech, an alarm, heightened their senses even more so – and the nymph felt the tiniest surge of panic fly through her blood (because it could’ve been anything – monsters, demons, trespassers, interlopers, thieves hastening into the night) and seethe down into the essence of her soul. But she wouldn’t let fear rule her, she was far stronger, wiser, and determined than to allow such a foolish seed fester within her, and she bloomed into the evening’s squall, partaking in the violent storm. The caller, however, was most unexpected (but luckily familiar), as she crashed down at their feet. Johnny’s intriguing familiar hooted and hollered pieces of information and news, gesturing and flapping with wings and feathers, breathing wails and wilderness. Imogen twisted and tilted her head, interpreting the details and particulars for what they were worth, attempting to relay them through their bonds and connections.
 
Need healer, her blue gaze landed on Lena’s, someone hurt.
 
Then they were off, sparing no moments, no hours, no long-winded occasions for anything but assuaging, mending, and repairing idle, broken things.
 
They followed Jellybean on her wild escapade, shifting through pockets of melted snow, drifting along the lake, listening to her singsongs and sirens; Lena breathed and prayed while they hastened and galloped, prospered oaths on tides of reverence and virtue. Please, she bent her head against the wind and tempests, don’t let me be too late.
 
The scene was speckled in color and wonder: Johnny, illuminated by his ivory and crimson coat in the moonlight, dear, sweet Zyanya kneeling beside a fallen figure, and the grumbling, wounded veteran himself, Albrecht. She could hear them speaking, talking in quiet drones, but failed to catch the words and phrases, too far away to hear their conversation. As long as they were still expressing syllables, ditties, and strains, she presumed no one was fading into the abyss. The maiden arrived at their sides thereafter with little preamble or fanfare, kneeling and settling down next to Albrecht, gaze catching the wounds, the lacerations, the wads of cotton soaking up blood, the snowball rolled to ease another’s pain. She smiled at the lengths they’d all gone, glancing to Johnny, Zyanya, and even Jellybean, prospering her gentle, kind words, ensuing truth and regality on the eve of what could have been loss and despair. “You did well.” Then, without any questions, because she never asked, never knew, when and where the beaten had acquired their wounds (it wasn’t her place or her business, and she could wonder, speculate, all she wanted, presume it was from sparring or skirmishes, instead of threats and ultimatums, more ghastly beasts roaming halls and parlors), her stare riveted on the older stag’s eyes, and her grin widened. “Give me a moment, Albrecht.”
 
Her eyes closed, and she gave into the rhythm of time and hours. Gilded hands spun clocks, whittled away the bones and fragments, the scratches and abrasions, the notched bits of pelt and hair. Magic, invocations, and enchantments glistened in the silence, before her bells began to chime, before a charming melody was cast from her throat, settling into the pockets and denizens of darkness – a harpsichord thread, thriving on wonder, polishing away melancholy. The powers granted to her from gods and goddesses flowed along her chest and along the bleak darkness, swarming, swelling, and pervading into gilded restlessness, courting away ruptured sinew and branded flesh, stitching open wounds back into their proper place, caressing, stroking, revitalizing the tender shards of nestled nettles, barbs, and thorns, crashing in virtuous raptures, braving the stormy night. When it all seemed complete, the time-span faded away too, ambience flickering and fizzling away, curling and coiling back into her figure for another day, another moment, when someone was worn, chiseled, and fractured again. Her lids opened, awakened again, her song concluded, finished on a splendid, fluid note, before her grin was restored to its proper place. “Does that feel better?” She queried the beast, before embarking upon other proclamations and sagacity. “I hope you thank your friends for their assistance.”