The songbird kept many secrets nestled in her chest, blooming in her heart, little sprouts and saplings of tender times, embraces of the past never spilled, never shed from the slender, lithe contortions of her resplendent skin. Bitter, resentful twists and turns, animosity coiled in listless strings, the overflow, the pockets of stones burying her deep beneath the harmonious flutes and harps she longed to construct. They left her tangled, darker threads intertwined with the whimsical tides and raptures of her desires, her yearnings, her longings, furtive depths distorting the mellifluous echoes of arias and ballads. They failed to scatter or break, to falter or stumble, to leap or bound away as a rabbit, as a deer, as a spring of taut, aching requiems. Instead, they curved, bent and wound themselves around her graceful movements, her elegant motions, so that she remained tied to earth, instead of divinity, instead of virtue, instead of the heavens and all their reverent elations and enchantments. If they were to be taken from her throat, molded and carved from her lungs, from her compassion, from her beneficence, what would be left? Idle ashes, burnt layers, forgotten enamel? What would the world see? Brittle scars, tainted enigmas, forlorn, desolate hours passed by in the sequestered brutalities of yesteryear, arches of disappointment and lofting minutes spent in isolation, the whispers of sanctities lost to the wilderness, to the savagery of beast and vermin? Her eyes traced over the portraits, the sculptures of the Threshold, wondered how it so carefully guarded its own clandestine motions, its covert collaborations and upheavals, audacious, auspicious, gathered cryptic designs. Even in her herd, the sovereignty, the empire she’d chosen to live in, delved amongst brewed mysteries, arcane, abstruse, perplexing and Delphic; perhaps she was drawn to the flames and embers of the reticent, the evasive, because she danced the same waltzes, the same boleros, the same fiery, pulsing dedication to vigilance, valor and composure. She didn’t pry, she didn’t query, but instead, sketched the outline of their given borders, the edge of their guarded rim, skimmed beside the roots of disguises.

Her sights nearly returned to the stranger, but they were torn from his frame by something else collected in the copse, the distinct call of her name across the icy, chilling winds. Honeyed eyes glanced to the familiar regality of her Lord, and the enlightenment of her grin became further embellished, heightened by the return of amity. He was another soul lost to the emblems and mystique, essences of entities too perilous, too dangerous, too embroiled and encased to unravel their chords. Though she pined to assist, to help, to soothe and assuage each incarnation, she knew the penalties were too high, the risks too great, to ever offer and bestow the chiming echoes of their concealed songs. She didn’t know where he’d been, didn’t know what he’d seen, adrift and left to wander the rising seas, the glacial expanses, the withering deserts, the shambled forests, and she refused to posture the questions. Her stare ensnared the depths of relief and elation in his deep blue eyes, and though she wondered why, the queries remained hidden, covered by the rest of the aching whims, the petulant splendors, the crafted reveries of dawn and its majesty. Lena’s voice, soft, dulcet croons of sanctuaries, shelters from the storm, flowers unbroken in the midst of bedlam, was smoothly prompted into the benediction of her crusades. “Mauja.” She reciprocated his touch, a fleeting, flowing gesture of strength, endurance, perseverance and might conveyed in one stroke of her maw upon his shoulder, good faith restored, granting him the deliverance he likely needed in the hollowed halls he traveled through. Perhaps he could take it with him, remember that even in the grating, horrible parlors, there were still murmurs, still breaths, of serenity, tranquility and safety.

Finally, she settled upon the grandeur of the other stag again, and the smile altered into a hopeful, wistful grin, the kind fostered for old friends, as if they’d been companions their entire lives and were suddenly reacquainted with each other’s foolishness. Their stares locked, but didn’t hint of unwound wounds, only a small snippet of shared regality, fanciful natures pushed to the surface so no one saw the roughened fathoms below. His words encouraged her to laugh, to giggle, a delightful, trilling sound that the birds would have mocked and joined had they the courage to drift into the cold. Captivated by the rogue’s reply, for it was silly and she loved those vanished, frivolous moments of play, entertainment and intrigue, she attempted to honor her own impish reply, spun sonnets of golden warbling, gilded hums and croons that savored hardly any intrusion. “My goodness, Blue Duck, you must have had quite the journey.” She mockingly threw her head to the skies to look for his fellow flock; then twisted her gaze downward again to stare vividly at the babbling stream defiantly combing the Threshold despite the wondrous chill. But he was more than a waterfowl, because beyond the undulating muscles, the taut strength, the might and dominion of his prowess, there was something deeper, something underlying, and no matter how hard he attempted to hide it, her keen eye sought the bravery, the daring, the courage, chained to his brow. A warrior’s muster, a glorious hallelujah, the stained, rippled contortion of soldier, spirited, stalwart, defiant and regal.

But then it was Imogen’s turn to be scrutinized, and as the fox creature was inspected by Blue Duck’s careful study, she twisted and turned, providing an opulent show for his perusal. Her tails moved like blades of grass, ivory fur bending and swaying with the breeze’s harsh recoil, and impishly, she moved to swipe one of them across his muzzle. Lena giggled once again, light, airy, fairy in the splendor of daybreak. “Imogen is a kitsune.” As if the simple sentence explained all he needed to know, she returned to her thoughts over his state of being, steaming, losing vapors of warmth in the merciless, pitiless noose of winter. Were he to continue shaking and trembling in the morose conjectures of Siberian interludes, he’d surely be taken into the cruel apertures of demise, quietus and death, discarded, covered by the reign of snow, ice and rime. Her voice suddenly dropped the saccharine tones, and maintained a more regal, indomitable edge, for it was not whimsical, it was not delightful, to perish at the hands of frosty, arctic grandeur. “It is not your strength we doubt, but the cold’s ruthlessness.” Blue Duck would be much more suited in the refuge, the haven, of a home, perhaps theirs, where the realm offered, provided, cover and immunity. His abilities were a mystery, his strange dubbing was a tattered requiem, but they all had their secrets, and the oeuvre, the masterpiece, the art, of their chiming echoes now came from struggling not to reveal them.