L E N A

Listlessness, languid and soft, curled, unfurled with winter’s vapor. They crawled amongst the runes, timeless and archaic, but clinging desperately to an eternal nothingness that drove shivers down her spine. The open, vacant world of the Steppe, with all its luster and beauty, could not contain the aching barbs of their wounded souls, of their desolate contortions, of their dedication and despondency. Still and silent, trapped in the boughs of pariahs, combing the shattered remnants of bitter earth for a morsel, a sliver, of something to call their own again. The nymph wandered the chilling world and craved life, yearned for the intoxicating rhapsody of shelter, sanctuary, a homeland that would cling to their hearts, foster their souls, burn and churn in their mind – but naught ignited. The hush, once a humming token of song and reverie, was now a sullen reminder of what they’d become: broken, splintered things. Yet, here she was again, in the shards of the Threshold, searching, seeking, foraging for the newcomers that could render them whole again, breathe life into lesions, bring hope in the shades of darkness. The layers of evergreen mysticism touched her sienna body, but she did not preen or dance in the hovering doldrums, did not waltz along the intertwining branches or sing in the harpsichord brambles. Instead, her limbs pulled against the weight of snow and embraced the scorn the icicle palisade had given them, lofty, cumbersome, everlasting. Only when the tug of others, strangers in the mist, pulled against her senses did she reclaim the bright glimmer of a smile.

She traced the steps of a stag, dove along the snowfall, and what had been momentary bliss, minute wonder and hope, was scattered by the vivid rivulets of crimson filtered amongst the ivory ground. Blood. Someone was injured, damaged, mangled. The sickening reel of such sentiments sent her motions into a swift pulse, elemental all over again, awash in the glow of her reverberating heart; searing, soaring, claiming the earth with little regard for anything but the hurt stranger bleeding across the forlorn floor. What if she was too late, and the heavens had claimed another? What if she truly could offer no aid for a wayfaring, ailing soul? Following the primrose path of ichor, she finally came upon the grizzly, horrifying scene. The pond, once frozen and content, bore a fallen stranger, still, unmoving. What could have been picturesque, beautiful creatures dancing in the winter’s bountiful haze, had been consumed by a dangerous, looming precipice. Even more daunting was the augured cracking of ice, incapable of supporting the rugged beast laid across its fragile arms. She gave little thought to her presence, brushing her voice against the cold air with a commanding ease. "Hold on!" Now, how was she to reach him without making the situation worse? Daintily, she slipped down towards the frosted embankment, careful, nimble, deer and swan armed with sword and warmth – and offered her assistance. Soft, encouraging, graceful, her noble, virtuous voice filtered into the onslaught of possible terror, attempted to assuage pending disaster. "Can you try to move towards the bank? I can reach you then."

L E N A

A thousand queries plagued the femme, and she ushered not a single one to be answered. His story would remain an enigma now, lost to the chambers of wilderness that help him captive. She could have postured the warm, genuine smile that bolstered spirits, the swan, nymph elegance of her motions, or the graceful strings of her glowing candor, softened the chords of chilling snow. But here, in the crackling, still void of winter, there was no time to render bountiful sentiments of praise, of breathing, of life. Only that swift, frantic haze of liberation existed, bound to the tangled twine that eclipsed his life and hers, bound to the mortal coil of existence and deliverance. His presence would be renewed here, restored and revived, not swept away or stolen by the rapacious scythe of the reaper’s sinuous aspirations. She leaned into the reeling wind, strong, determined, valiant, the dulcet croon of conviction, hope and benevolence, melodic, seraphic grandeur carved into corporeal form, twisting her limbs towards the embankment, sliding against the harsh brush of ice. Extending her muzzle as if to offer its support, she ushered him onward, the mellifluous defiance her warm siege against the mottled, bestial hark of death and devastation. He stirred, sliding against the cold, frozen parlor that had almost snuck his last breath away - fighting for his sentience, his existence, and she lavished the world with his power, thanked his body for not sacrificing those idle moments of time. ”Well done!” Lena floated downward ever further, meeting his body along the crisp, thicker ice, petal soft footfalls brushing over the glacial expanse, the regal, deadly beauty of its harsh magnificence. Her eyes caught the wound, but she did not hesitate, did not quake, did not lose herself to the wicked edge of its searing, ruthless appearance – her gaze slid elsewhere, to the long, heavy horns he carried, to the body that would one day heal. She smiled now, dipped her head to his ears and postured a statement of safety, of aid, of assistance that didn’t drown in the cruel arch of heinous gales. “If you can rise, you may lean on me. We shall get you off of this ice.” She commanded one more feat of strength from his limbs, and then she’d invoke the rest from her own creation, from her own entity. She’d proffer and bestow her own vitality if he could promise another from his own wrecked, tormented chords.