In the passing days, she had not withered, refusing to wilt in the haze of turmoil, in the gaze of confusion, in the desolate, contorted waves of delusion, chaos and entropy. Her glow did not flicker, her soul did not shatter, and she did not plunge over rock and rubble to another time, another place, nor another realm that harbored secrets, scandals and sneers. She remained amongst the tides of enigmas, quandaries and mysteries, never allowed to see their depths, always peering over the edge while collecting her own concealed armaments. Was this another one of their junctures – where she was permitted to see the scrape of friction and enmity, the toss of civility and disregard, but not the ultimate reason, not the antagonism or brutality that simmered beyond her reach? What had Roland done to earn the glower, the resentment, the cold, chilling gaze of the ice lord? The nymph breathed as the glow of the world seemed to brighten a mere snippet more, while the sharp, keen knives of hostility and tension appeared to dwindle, snaking, curving, bending around tundra and rime, a quelled sanction left to muddle until some other unruly interval. Guarded again, inadequate and futile, like a cast aside innocent, a juvenile, an infantile exploring around the ankles of her protectors. But nestled in the soothed siege, she bloomed, felt adversity tickle against her veins and pulse with a decreed sentiment, sneak and trickle until her limbs were tightly controlled springs, composure becoming refinement, smiles churning, turning, into the slender, tender blossom of devotion and dedication. Fey and fairy postured herself into diligence, into perseverance, into the snippet of florets and whimsical, fanciful moments to hide molten curiosity, to discard the harsh, unrelenting reality that her warm, compassionate alms, bestowed to the grandeur of oak, lilac and ice, would always be cast aside for savagery, viciousness and cruelty. Lena refused to ask the daunting questions lingering in her mind, the cool convictions of unsaid, muted uncertainties, kept her head aloft as the King caressed her neck, seeking familiarity in the altered atmosphere. Could she offer relief to both if she were to sing her heart out, let it kindle in the wind, give a gift of a melody that subdued, assuaged, delivered the raw sentiments of her misgivings? And what would they do with her offering?

But she didn’t. No hint of a song pooled in her throat, no bearing of chords drifted along her mouth, naught but the eternal warble, the trill, of her dignified, diplomatic countenance. Gone are the moments of exultance, vanished are the scraps of exuberance, forgotten are the tender coils of a playful intrigue; now is not the time for idle play, repose or serenity, only the fragments of finesse and delicacy that she mustered from her heart. She repaid Mauja with a quick, light, airy touch of her maw against his shoulder, because for some reason she felt anything more would overwhelm him as it had in the dim, confusing cave. A cracked mirror brought happiness for his existence, for his essence, for his soul, to drift with them all over again, like the returning fire of a world consigned to oblivion – she grinned, flung it along her lips until everything seemed right again, her eyes cast to Roland, to the gilded one who stood on trial for curiosity and impulsion.

Lena listened, drew placid, tranquil breaths as he told his story, a swindler in the midst. Another specious character, formed by pinnacles of history, enlightened by the gaze of things she’d never seen, never witnessed, never chimed or echoed upon. She’d never had it in her heart to be a deceiver, never wished to trick or fool, to settle artifices and ruses over crown and country. But there were surely some like he, drifting amongst the wood and glade for smirks to unravel, for toys to taunt, for ploys to shape and take form. She wondered, for a few moments, if he’d tried to take her into the depths of deception within the Threshold, if she’d misread signs, if she’d been nearly pulled into an abyss – and would he do the same to his herd members? Or did he tell them of his procedures in order to gain trust, to further instill a bond that would last until his final breath? Would they rather he be out in the nomadic realms, conjuring against them from a distance, or pulled into their kingdom, scattering Cheshire grins to rivals and enemies? She mused, then spoke, instilled more convictions, threw herself on a limb, on a perilous peak, for the golden stag. “Do we need another Phantom, Mauja?” Honeyed eyes stole swiftly to the stern blue of the monarch, granted faith, certainty, and assurance in the swing of her gaze, to permit, to allow, another creature past their gates.