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Lena the Songbird They were a lifetime of endurance, of perseverance, of souls united in fortitude (obstinate, she wanted to say, defiant until the final dawn, the final dusk) – but they still shambled, stumbled, and bumbled along, straight into the arms of their captor. She lingered along the lines too, just as miscreant, swinging her ears back and forth to catch the words, the nuances, the phrases, daring to go between the lines and wonder what it all meant. They weren’t safe here, they weren’t safe anywhere, but she knew her skills, she knew the breadth of her power, of her salvation, of her potency, and if she could’ve caught anyone’s eye, she would’ve pledged her mending properties to their entire being – so they knew, somehow, someway, the little Songbird with her beatific heart and grand beneficence would try to save them.   It hadn’t been enough for her kin at Kao’s hands, but perhaps – amidst all these other monsters, it would be something - one more chance, one more opportunity, one more breath of life before it was snatched away.   So she and Imogen dreamed in a quiet rebellion. It was a hushed revolution, a whispered uprising, the kind with no measure of violence at all – just beautiful songs and spirited music, tones to regenerate the body, the mind, the soul. She’d fight tooth and nail for them, dig her heels in to play one more sweetened stanza, one more vicious tune, conspire and uproot, settle and stitch; the same as before, dipped in too much virtue and deliverance. The femme, the nymph, the seraph, listened, took in the echoes, the throngs, the need for education, and understood the depths of her motivations in those poignant moments – because she’d be a flower, a petal, a rose, a bloom, in all the chaos and confusion, learn everything possible to ensure the safety of those gathered in the balms of nefariousness. She wouldn’t bow, and she certainly wouldn’t break.

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