She’d been cautious, but ensnared too, like everything would be fine with the world despite how many treacherous things she’d seen. Blinded and veiled, shrouded and misguided, she’d spent her hours cleaning and clearing just like everyone else, hoping, praying, believing that this hour would not be like the last, and her beautiful little heart had woven itself into splendor and intrigue, rather than seeing the disastrous edges clinging to the horizon. We’re such fools, she uttered silently to Imogen, who only cast her head down, because she hadn’t seen it either, and Lena wanted to either scream or cry, understanding neither was beneficial. She should’ve been able to sense something amiss – for all the disasters she’d intertwined herself within: monsters raging across lands, Gods persisting past barriers, disease-riddled companions turning against friends, wars and famines, persecutions and annihilations – but lord, how she’d wanted to believe in something good, in something whole.
 
But this wasn’t it. It was one more mistake in a lineage of grievous errors, and she’d been a part of it. She’d allowed herself to be spellbound and cast into colorful reefs and foolish ventures, aligning with darkness and bones for the sole purpose of resurrection – and her heart beat ferociously, brutal, sickened, by the weight of their power, of their efforts, stolen to be naught more than a cruel joke by demons and infidels. She was so tired of it, so weary of it, so insatiably bothered to be used again by the lands, to be tricked and deceived, to be unguarded by those who swore to look after their mortal brethren.
 
So, she began to sing.
 
It wasn’t mournful. It wasn’t amiable. It was possessed by power and destruction, rippling through the layers of her throat, of her lungs, with fire and brimstone, coiled, curled embers smoking from the skies, christened and anointed by the flames, by the malice, by the toils of trials and tribulations they’d gone through year after year, season after season. It bloomed and blossomed from the fixation of frustration and exasperation, a hidden pocket of rage festering between her lungs and heart, whistling and wicked, clawed and tied down by the intrepid wonder of fairies pushed too far for too long. It reigned in dusky hollows, intending to surround the sky above the bone monster and his chilling, massive, monstrous frame, a tune of infernos and gallantry, an orchestra, a composition, of benedictions and promises.

[Lena attempts to use her singing magic to summon flames to rain down on the bone monster.]


Fault lines tremble underneath my glass house
But I put it out of my mind long enough to call it courage
To live without a lifeline