Not enough sky or heaven; they pressed, molded, concealed and remained, solid, staunch, stalwart beasts of the hills and caves, children of the ice, the glaciers, the snow, the rime, locked out of Siberia. Lines were drawn in the jungle, glassy reflections and ebullience driven to the shoal and shore; nefarious qualities ignored, scorned, disregarded. While she begged for naught but absolution, defiance of the darker threads, of the blooming nightshade or daunting ghosts tapping at their windowpanes, he conjured restoratives, plunged headlong into elation and rhapsody, fine-tuned the piccolos and harps through sullen, murky forces. She joined with each rising note, built reverie from columns of earth and stone, obstinate chords and reverent peals, finery and rebellion coated in joviality. The sylph played her part with cordial euphoria: like the lady of the lake, granting heroes a serene smile, a proffered sword, before showing her own rapier and armor; a fairy draped in chainmail. She delved deep into the fathoms and plucked smiles from the cascading droplets or the sinuous, snaking rivulet, stuck her enamored, besotted, enchanted essence to the walls, to the patchwork wiles, consecrating, anointing, and clamoring over the midnight coils and Stygian screams. She plaited, twisted, wove their plumes together, gilded knight and beguiling fey, into a crystal melody, theme, anthem, crooned for the moon, the stars, the sun, left naught for the darkness to swallow or consume (not the bleeding vows of her memories, the soiled memories of her beloved home, the pestilent march of cursed boughs). Ecstatic movements and motions, lithe, limber, willowy laurels of a homespun sprig, driven through shallow serpentines and hallowed grounds, brushing against his golden figure like the hint of a whisper, the dulcet murmur of a caress, a furtive, secretive, ethereal blessing. Enigmatic throngs and pulls, entranced and led down primrose paths, light, airy, flickering from limb to limb, a splash, a crash, pawing into the catacombs and rejoicing at the water soaking them both – lacing a crown of merriment over their thorns of heady doldrums. She wasn’t heavy in his presence, weighed down by the wails, the screeches, the terror or horror, slipping delicately into the embrace of his ruminations, seeking deeper absolution through the clouded fabric, the flaxen core.

And all the while, as Roland aided her melancholy, as he filled in the empty, hollowed void of her sentiments – did she grant anything to him? It would’ve been selfish, inconsiderate, and thoughtless to continue plucking the feathers of his grace without rendering him anything in return, without providing aid, wisdom, or an advantage of her soul, trading her benevolence for his generosity. But as they pulled and tangled into lissome, easygoing grace, Lena pondered over the hushed undulations, the masked, lacquered treaties she’d bend and grant, what he required through the fleeting fragments of shadows and schemes. She had no specious armaments to arm the Impersonator, no enemy wounds to salt, no withering decibels of a pestilent force to undermine or contort. She had no trinkets gathered in her calculations, only perseverance and persistence, layers of strength meant to soothe, meant to assuage (and hadn’t he done that already?). Her bestowals were simple, smiles, triumphant gleams, patterns of honeysuckle laughter, unending grins, beneficence in the loathsome darkness - but were these wanted baubles and ornaments, or useless trifles easily discarded once they left the dungeons and oubliettes? Were they puffs of air and smoke, disappearing through the ages, lofting, lilting harmonies restoring naught but singular moments, forgotten in time thereafter, ruined and mauled by trenchant disasters? Caught in the waves, in the wanton, yearning press to please, delight, charm and oblige, she swiveled into the ripples of his mauled deluge, giggled as the spray washed over her form, rippled and congealed into a darker mass of sienna and ambrosia. Her eyes cast a faithful stare, tilting in its curious provocations, jaw clenched tightly, struggling not to pry, but simply gleam over the surface, exude glimpses, sights, of where a heart rested in the gallows, how she could sustain its cavalier exuberances. She glided closer, touched her shoulder to his, conducted and composed a soulful harmony through the rise and fall of the sparkling chute, a chuckle, a tease, drawing closer, a silly ruse playing in truthful bounces and desires. “Is there anything I can do for you, Roland?” Then, a subsequent, swift chase, through the sparkle of her gaze and the fleeting ambience of her vicinity, she rose for a few, slender moments, then came plunging down into the water, diving and scraping at the pool, enjoying the feel, the touch, the cool kiss of the shower scraping over her frame, tumbling towards the obliging stag. If need be, he could hide the answer through the wall of waves, tuck it away so that only her ears could capture the tiny snare.

@[Roland]