Their compositions were perfected on the swell of the surf and the rising of the tide; Lena strung together a glorious hallelujah, a mighty ditty, as sand met rivulets, as gulls cried and sang. Her eyes weren’t cast upon the shore, rocks, or pebbles, where she’d nearly been burned alive, but riveted and tasked along the endless horizon, the smoldering Tallsun beams, or the eternal bliss of another day on earth. She looked for shells, some coated in ivory sheen or pale, pink lacquer, then laughed and played with Imogen, running in wild exuberance down the shoreline, chasing after one another until her sides hurt from merriment and the scorching heat. It was all a wondrous distraction, a time and place without pain, without misery, without toiling reminders of nothingness and ruin – if everyone drifted away from her, then she’d make due with what she had: serenity, tranquility, and composure. The nymph knew determination and perseverance, vices and virtues, how castles fell and empires tumbled, how friends disappeared through fog, mist, and the unknown, how eventually they would return, changed, but still together, still whole. She’d simply be strong for them in the interim: a blaze of glory and fire, sanctuary and beneficence, charms and sonnets. She’d live for the moments, for the days, for the weeks and months, seasons and cycles, in between meetings and goodbyes. Her heart wouldn’t break, yield, or dampen any longer – and at such a sentiment, dear little Imogen nodded in affirmation, and they darted again.
 
Her strides were not built on savage decrees, but on dulcet, butterfly exposition, a soft toil in the sand, digging in partial imprints lifted soon thereafter by the entangled waves; but she liked to think they made their marks as they crossed and floated, as they dipped and swerved, token memories of jubilance and finery. For some part they danced, twirled and waltzed, a partner for one another, one giggling, the other chirping, and only when Lena had whirled into another ardent turn, wheeling around and around until her fairy steps had touched the ocean and caressed the cool essence, did she notice another being enshrouded by the current. Her breath slowed for a few vigilant seconds, eyes narrowed, studying the shape, the painted figure, the length of wings and a tiny sprout of an owl nearby…and all at once it clicked on a length of rhapsody, on a collected wisp of ambience, kindness, and compassion. “Alysanne!” She harked along the embankment, then immediately thread her way along the shoal, casting her strong limbs into the surf and adoring the cool effects of droplets crashing against her dampened coat – chasing after friends instead of stars or thieves, and it was better that way.
 
It felt like a lifetime since she’d glimpsed upon her, but what a wondrous thing despite their long absence! A smile cast along her features and never waned, enveloping and wide, beautiful and illustrious, glowing like the sun, like the moon, like the songs filling and pulsing through her heart. She dipped her head towards the owl, not daring to leave him out of the attention. “Hemlock! It's so good to see you!” Imogen followed in good pace, chirruping her hellos and dipping her tails in the approaching waves. Lena, now focused entirely on Alysanne, noted the laceration, deep, menacing, swollen, along the mare’s side, and nearly dared to ask how she’d received such a thing (and why wasn’t it mended? Why was it still torn, infected and malicious, increasing pain and torment for its holder?). Her smile didn’t retract, and she pretended not to have seen it at all, poised and prosed, delighted and enraptured, forgoing curiosities for enchantment and wonder. Her question was on a light, whimsical refrain, eternal reveries and mellifluous delights, serenading the slashed creature. “How have you been?”