tomorrow will be kinder

Familiarity became a trail of ghosts marched between them, a flicker of memories, a fountain of images; but the Songbird couldn’t trace their finite grace, their limited potency, and they were lost to the wiles of days and seasons. She didn’t have a name, she didn’t have a greeting, and she didn’t have a calling to mark the face with any other form of recognition (except her colors, her physique, there was something eerily poignant there, resting amidst her eyes and her frame, as if she’d seen it all before). But they tugged so forcefully, so blatantly, that the femme had to shake her head for a moment, tucked and nestled in the branches and brambles of the unknown (an enigma, she knew, but perhaps one easily rendered, uncurled, uncoiled?). She still smiled, she still proffered, she still bestowed, and the haunting air twisted amongst itself, poised and composed, waiting for a sign, a hint, of what once was.
 
An ear flickered towards another newcomer – a stranger entirely – made of ivory, dulcet sheen and sheer, like regal swans or refined doves, proceeding with her own benedictions and alms. Lena’s grin tugged and grew, beautiful and beatific, reaching out towards the morning dew and the scattered sun, eager to have another in their midst that was willing, helpful, guiding, and kind (instead of bitter, instead of rancorous, instead of pulled into dungeons, oubliettes, and snares).  "Of course!" She chirped back, a compassionate nod driven into the wind.
 
Then, a strange sensation trickled over her – like a connection, like a bond, forged between two minds. Her eyes immediately sought out Imogen’s, whose own brow had been arched, head tilted, confused and bewildered by a third bridging its way into their cranium. Yet, it seemed tired, lethargic, listless, struggling to leap, to bound, across the sanctions and sanctum. Instead of being afraid, for it was an odd circumstance to hear anyone else in her head except for Imogen’s quiet comments, the nymph listened, cool, composed, intrigued by the hows and whys of this magnificent transfer. Was it magic, enchanted and invoked to slide across fields and valleys, to connect without song, without sonnets, without a need for vocals? Was it a necessity? Was it a curse? The Mender didn’t ask any of these things, but the curiosity continued to grow, sparked, incensed, kindled by the strange happenings gliding and pervading through their souls. Besides, the other seemed frail, delicate, hoping to make it through their walls without falling apart at the seams; so she answered, turning her head back upon the battered femme, bestowing her mellifluous voice again, incapable of composing anything but arias and melodies. "Yes. Would you like to come inside? We could help you." She maneuvered herself to a more compliant position, rendering her left shoulder available for propping another’s frame up against it; strong and stalwart, valiant and steadfast – eyes searching, indicating, for the newcomer’s to perhaps go to the other side. Her gaze fluttered thereafter to the feeble stranger, still enshrined and anointed with a grin. "I'm Lena, a Time Mender here. Who are you?"

the songbird