She listened with a kind tilt, with a compassionate ear, with a composed fixture, eyes settling across companion to bonded, fixating her attentions upon the task at hand – internal, stomach consumed by impacted particles. “You’ll be fine,” she murmured (and believed it to be so), a seraph, an angelic warrior tending to her flock, shepherding the first glimmers of melodies and hallelujahs past her lips (when Mortuus arrived, eager to aid and assist, eyes flickering momentarily to the herb proffered, nodding, “Thank you Mortuus,” kindled along her quiet serenade, trying to avoid the break in concentration). It sparked over her tongue thereafter, a careful, quiet hum, familiar and soothing, a beautiful, warm melody coaxed from the dedicated measures of her soul (trying, always trying to assure that none of her brethren were in pain). She parted her lips, closed her eyes, and kneeled next to him, crown and mouth poised over his aching barrel, sang from the corners of her heart and the diligence of her laurels; a nymph, a siren, a fairy, a coaxing, rapturous piece of reverence. The Songbird again, mind ensconced in hymns and rhapsodies, in choruses and orchestras, in vivid compositions, while her enchantments picked apart at the clover his stomach had failed to pass, while they yielded to her diligence, to her possession, to her ardent, passionate zeal for justice and assuaging. Veiled and varnished in gold, in strung harmonies glistening, opulent, tender, fervent notes cast into the air, the invocations seared and simmered, polished and intricately laced the tremors, the pain, the agony away, swindled and stole and pried against, until the lines of ruin and abomination didn’t conquer her horizons, didn’t swindle her sights. When the afflicted moments seemed to pass, her stare, revitalized, lids opening to the outside world and the heavens again, went to the snake too, hoping she’d managed to provide him with some release, some aid, in the cordial slips and turns of refrains and tracks.
 
But she didn’t bark, didn’t lecture, didn’t chide, didn’t scorn – merely remained, resting there, poised and ready to try again if need be. She questioned, gently, a beneficent passage for the suffering beast (no matter how many times he’d sneered and snarled, he didn’t deserve a raw, petulant tone; she wouldn’t become embittered and rancorous, hadn’t even in the darkest of hours and days). “How do you feel now?” Then, with a little glance towards the plant Mortuus had gathered, her gaze swept along the earth, along the clover, sprung from spring’s coaxing measures. “Do you know how this happened, Albrecht?” Because she wanted him to understand, to comprehend, the ways in which they could all be injured and marred (that gluttony wasn’t the answer, that an avaricious beam rarely got anyone anywhere), to try and prevent another moment of agony or affliction.