Freedom, blessed and bestowed, sparrow stanzas and lilac palisades, simmering and smoldering beneath the blooming tandem of her restless soul, of her seraphic, wishful thinking. Relished and released from the brooding tempest, he followed amidst her thrown rose petals and clover plaiting, so she continued to spin amongst her interwoven threads of lace and ebullience, desperate to show, to capture, the radiance of amity, of affinity, that there was more to life than crouching in the shadows, than spiraling into the hollowed shackles and shells of specious intrigue. She turned, twisted, whirled and twirled towards his golden hide, enlightened, emboldened by the sun so as his frame reached for its rays, it captured every essence of gilded light, lion prowess and gallant antiquity, played vibrant, swinging tunes through her birdsong essence, trilling, warbling, the only siren calls she knew. While she didn’t proffer jagged rocks, sailors screeching for their lives, temptress wings or fractious, foolish crusades, she bestowed the timeless chords of effervescent delight, the aria strands and innocent, minstrel renegades; impish deliverance on her fanciful finesse. Her smiles were tossed amongst the blossoms, nymph glows and sylph bows, so if he meandered into their wake, he could claim each and every one for himself, listen to their glorious crescendo of laughter and merriment, soft, dulcet cadence, sanctuary and liberation amidst their careful, sweetened ambrosia. Exotic, pulsing, pervading, convincing the labors of the earth to spring up in jubilation, ardent, passionate, poised and aloft, lilting and mellifluous, flowing along the lea with benevolent missions and honeyed sentiments, the basking resplendence of sweetheart ruminations, giving, giving, and giving until she couldn’t sacrifice any more but the angelical whims of her soul. The songbird reached and reached for his swindlers’ smirk and devilish flair pressed against the shadows, the shade, where thorns lurked and barbs encompassed, threatened to pierce the void he’d sunk within with all of her opulence and pleasantries until he had to respond to her candor and unearthly contortions, to tear him away from the chiseled expanse of sullen worlds and hidden veneers, to drag him away from the inner sanctum of scars, requiems, and despondency. If he failed to follow, perhaps she’d fall into the claws, into the iniquity, into the mantles, and retrieve him herself.

The notion didn’t need to be extended or developed, no sooner had she thought of reaching into the ashes, into the gloom, did the gilded beast appear, winking, her heart beat matched the humorous artifice, carried away from the bridges of desolation (by her? by whim? by folly? by impulse?), matching the tone of her strides until they were drawn into silence and conclusion. Her smile brandished, providential, cherubic, slid from his handsome features and into the rogue, arched brow of Imogen, as though a challenge hadn’t yet been met, as if to truly sweep him into paragon pedestals and apart, aside, from the brewing incantations, the enchantress of darkness, they had to enact another provocation. The cunning vixen’s chirps turned into silent, devilish snickers, and Lena’s prosperous, juvenile incantations followed, an enticing, alluring, beguiling indulgence blooming, brimming, from her harmonic nature; dipped into sprite grandeurs and fairy crowns. “Perhaps we didn’t grant him a decent-enough chase, Imogen…” The mischievous accompaniment of her gaze settled back upon Roland’s stare, riveted, fixated on the peaceful blue, on the sea scythes, a harmonious, silly laugh thereafter, and a matching wink tossed his way – then, as Imogen blazed through the long grass, ivory tails like a beckoning sail, she tore off into the midst again. Another invitation extended, further and further adrift from the neglected hymns and forgotten daggers, pursuits and lures, appeals and temptations, gliding across the earth in perfect consonance and accord, the very fibers of her nature appealing to the nymph designs and fey elegance, forgoing the blight of sun or the harsh vectors of its dastardly wake. Lena, Mender of Time and swift, intrepid valor set her eyes on the stream’s rivulets and didn’t look back – assured that the Thief’s spirits would accompany and escort; and if not, she’d drag him until he matched her stride for stride.


@[Roland]