L E N A
the love of heaven makes one heavenly

She dreamed of many things. Vibrant, dancing hues, beams of light that waltzed and sprinted beyond the stars to realms of aspirations that she could never touch herself, stalwart chambers that invoked the warmest reveries. Incandescent, luminescent whims of staunch cavalcades, festivals of merriment that sparkled and chimed with the wind and the rain, petals that opened amidst the tender embrace of the sun and the glory of the moon. Haunting, melancholy shades of darker days, where worlds crumbled beneath the masses of bliss and humanity, forgotten and discarded, awakened to the anarchies and lawlessness of terror and iniquities. Like moss, stuck to the floors of forests in a plague of soft exposure, betraying ebullience and exuberance for the taste, the touch, of barbarity, for savagery, when she’d given in to the hark of animosity and war. So too did the visions and fantasies conspire evenings of yesteryear, with their flickering ides of canopies drawn to hide a child of behemoths and monsters, to shelter from the raging turbulence of belligerence and hostility. Pictures of brethren, past and present flickered against her closed eyes, dipping over into slides of the known and cherished, some gone but not forgotten, some disappeared into the mist, some just over the glades and auroras. Then, there was the strange, fixating glimmer of another, wavering tails that twisted and turned, that distorted and consumed, deceitful, guileful, specious, gleaming tides of an unfamiliar creature. She thought for a moment to reach for the spectacle, to cave into the bubbling laughter, the mirth that it invoked, the quick, swift merriment of mischief that it invoked into the stupor of her hallucinations. But what was real, and what was not? The churning balm, calm, of honeyed, dewy whims, the dark, tainted parlors of her corruptions and heritage, the companions of here and now, or the startling, wily, artful clamor of the exotic vulpine.

Lena opened her eyes, allowed the lashes to curl upwards towards the colored horizon, downwards again to float against her cheeks, until they finally awakened in the slate of dawn and day. Her cordial stare searched the plains for the edges of fantasy that clung to her gaze, for the foreign essence of laughter that did not belong to her, but bobbed and weaved along the trees and mountains. Had she been tricked, toyed with, manipulated and immersed into the wiles of another’s caprices? Her brow arched and her head swung, pinpointing towards the heavens and back towards the forest floor, when they caught the idling fox kit standing at her hooves, crackling with all the duplicity it had bestowed and inspired in her listless trance. Calmly, gently, she lowered her noble head towards the babe, nestled her soul into the regal geniality, benevolence, of her beloved grace, maw resting inches away from its furry complexion. She whispered to the child, low and soft, dulcet and smooth, satin and silk rummaging from her vocals, an inspiring murmur charmed by the ambiguous presence of this crafty, calculating creature. “You are real.” She paused, breathed in the runes of the day, and continued onward in this ambivalent puzzle and labyrinth of truth and lies. “What do you want of me?”

L E N A
the love of heaven makes one heavenly

The haze of the morning sank into her mind and made her wonder what portions were corporeal and which were unattainable fancies. If she reached out for the world, for the heavens, would they answer? If she tore against the earth, would it crumble? If she began to lace her queries of the realm, would they respond – or was this the slinking, sinking aperture of rapture and reverie all over again? Would she sink beneath the waves of reality and be forever locked in its embrace? Would she claim shadow instead of light? What lay beyond the moon, the stars, the sun and the dawn, what came from this tiny beast that beckoned and courted, that beguiled and allured? Entranced, like a moth to flame, a child to danger and treachery, to perilousness and specious armaments, inquiry, curiosity, alighted and incensed. She watched the creature in all its delicate finery, the twitch, the flourish of its gestures, the beat of its devious artifices and cunning. Should she follow, dance the primrose path, what lay before her? A walk amongst ruins of her life, a waltz through chambers of grace, of elegance, or of disaster and wreckage – for she’d seen both, lived amongst the vast traces of shambles and shards, fragments of collected victories, and the weary, delightful promises of a grander kingdom bestowed by divinities. Her eyes caught its flicker, the strange, dreamy wink of an ethereal bloom, and perhaps she’d never been awake, was trapped within the confines of reality and fixations, or what appeared earthly, concrete, tangible, was naught but the dregs of her imagination, coiled from the lengths of forgotten raptures. She truly didn’t know, couldn’t explain, but found herself aloft, drifting again, at one with the spirit’s beckoning, captivated, enchanted, a fay charmed by another’s spells. Limbs moved of their own accord, soft ambience amongst the new snow, the drawn steps of a petal soft entity, giving into the arms of temptation and enticement. Lena, sylph and nymph, followed the chants of impulse and inclination into the valley of the unknown.

L E N A
the love of heaven makes one heavenly

Did she trust too much, to be led away by temptation? Was this a moment she would reflect upon later as disastrous – the allure, the fixation, the beguiling trance of the ages that captured and ensnared her into a most despairing trap? There was a fleeting moment in her mind that whispered of treachery and deceit, but her heart, bold, valiant and enduring, believed in sanctity, in bliss, in hope and benedictions, and the croon of timidity was soon forgotten in the waves of enchantment. The fox was quick, eager, swift, and she followed it into the streams and inclinations of snow, a blurry glimpse of sienna against the backdrop of ivory and chilly auroras, intrepid and spirited. The wind caressed her skin, harsh and unrelenting, cold biting at pelt and hide, but she ignored the haunting frailties of spring with the chords of her own rapture, chasing the impulse, the indulgence, of her dream escort. Limbs carved the finery of her dancing fancies with each passing moment of fluid, elegant grace and poise, the regal, moral tides drifting in the glade of snow and ice. When the fellow beast dove into the trees, she ducked beneath branches and skirted around bushes, driven to accompany, to traverse, with the vulpine’s silent candor. Yet, when she glimpsed around a tree, it had disappeared into another bough and she was lost to the breath, mist, and vapor that rang from the hushed limbs of forest and mountains. Her nares collected the scents of the glade, but found naught that traced their way back to the guiles of the fox. For a moment, she stood still, composed, calm, but otherwise uncertain of what had transpired. Had she truly been led astray, into a path of nettles, barbs and tribulations? Had she been tricked, deceived, escorted to slaughter, ruin? What was the purpose of leading her on a chase into nothingness?

Disappointed, she lowered her head, and turned her dial back towards where the apparition had last been seen. A flicker of peculiar color struck her eye, some hue that didn’t belong in the peaks and valleys of snow dunes. Pricked by insatiable curiosity again, she lingered, softly sketching her hooves in the shadows of the branches. She pushed one bough aside, then the other, and allowed a soft gasp to exhale from her lungs. The warm air billowed and traced around the essence of one egg, alone, forlorn, and desolate in the chilling slate of the Basin. The sylph raised her crown to see if any other creature was around, if any soul could claim the lonely child, if the mother had disappeared like the wraith – it couldn’t have been left to wither and die in the chill. When nothing made its presence known, she bent down towards it again, and with her muzzle, gently nudged it from beneath the wooden arms of its protector. She couldn’t help but stare at it again, unsure, anxious, apprehensive that her actions wouldn’t hold consequences, yet, she couldn’t allow herself to be the one to have found the helpless babe and not provide assistance. Her hesitation didn’t last long as she lowered her body near the egg, prompting it with her maw again to rest in the cloak of her warmth, nestled between her forelegs and against her chest. She’d been alone once too, wandering, wavering, in the expanse of misery, and she wouldn’t allow this one to experience the melancholy any longer.