Black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
Often I wonder why I try hoping for an end
Sorrow weighs my shoulders down
And trouble haunts my mind

The sylph listened to the quiet, the hush, the lull, then swinging reverberations of surprise echoing across the vast hall. Slid along the portal of curiosity and silence, she’s rendered into a state of mute tranquility, watching as the rest of the world welcomes their stolen King into open arms. There was confusion, turmoil, tribulation struck amongst the stars, the ceiling, the cavern, and the walls are lifted into a sense of perplexity that none of them could, would, solve. The ivory Haruspex, with his wisdom, their sage, their philosopher, unknown brujos and children, Larkspur, with her warm embrace and languished concern, Psyche, their jackal and sovereign, and ultimately, to the ghost, to the wraith, to the corporeal foundation of what they’d started, what they yearned for, what they trusted and devoted their lives to – solidified into the enigmatic complexities of disappearance and apparitions. Amongst the embroiled riddles, they had no answers for him, and he had no answers for them, and they’d suddenly become lacquered in mystery, awe and enigmatic quandaries, Sphinx puzzles and conundrums that left them boundless, flesh turned foul. Were she to deliver every heartfelt sentiment they had to offer, were she to divine the course of their efforts, of their unrelenting prowess, of their perseverance, of their dedication, he would likely shift away from their beings, pressured, demanded upon, loosened from the seams and cords of writhing, withering obscurities. But she doesn’t, for as she studied the chiseled features of her face, she saw the apprehension, the weariness, the dismay, and felt no need to cause him to glide away from them, no use being misinterpreted – happiness, contentment, bliss, for imposition, wants and necessities. He didn’t smile, didn’t grin, so she erased the pinnacle of her easygoing, fairy, fay beam in order to assuage the reeling guilt that crossed over her mind. Somehow, she’d done it again, provided assault with her ebullient haze, caused fault, erred in her cheerfulness, so she retreated to the muffled, muted world of nothingness, held her head high and witnessed as the world erupted over his return, shifting into the midnight hues of the cave. If her companion hadn’t been there, she would have twisted into invisibility, escaped into the veils and shades of discomfort, for she so hated, loathed, when her well wishes somehow clambered into other things, distorted, contorted into shards of piercing punctures. He didn’t deserve to be crowned with thistles, nestles and thorns when all she wanted to bestow upon him was hope.

She turned away from Mauja’s stature to address Larkspur, to comfort her in the building tension of befuddlement and amazement, winking once, nudging an ear, brushing a cheek, spoiling a friend’s heart into safety and assurance; there was naught to fear. But then his words swept over the threshold again, and Lena’s attention swerved back to their former King, the icy pinnacle of strength and sovereignty, wondering if she would be allowed to answer his query. Her eyes swindled from one creature to another, all lost in the perplexities roused by uncertainty, ignorance, doubt and mystification, and so, she wandered into the wonder again, poured her sweet murmurs into sounds. Simple, concise, she’d allow someone else fill in the holes that her spring, her essence, would try to fill and overcome the muffled chords of her solace. Perhaps she was not yet worthy to say anything more. “The Aurora Basin.”

Lena
Sweets to the sweet