Feathery whims, light incantations, slight diversions and ethereal entertainment speckled and kindled from the thistle courtyard lingered amidst the cherished ferns and reeds, an unyielding, persevering smile still laced over her lips. Sunlight dazzled and procured her eyes, dabbled elegance and finesse despite her fallen frame curled along the embankment, trapped and ensconced by his amused grin and calm assurance. The fey rose like a spellbound floret, blossoming and unfurling sienna, golden petals, resuming her stately fixture and figure in the stalks and grass, radiant and gleaming as she took in the delicate contortions of the sun. A warm ripple of laughter tickled and teased from the layers of her fairy essence, unearthly, otherworldly possessions, bounding in light, airy waves, knowing full well her challenge had been anything but, and he’d attempted to appease her quick, impulsive efforts. “I aim to please!” An absorption and lacquer of truth beyond so many other statements: for every bountiful step she tread, she selflessly pled for the salvation of her harem, of her brethren, of her companions and friends. Through chilling winds and pouring rain, through spiteful indulgences and ruffian declarations, through the rampant, dire needs of sanctum and sanctuary, she trudged along them all, regaling sweet nothings and bestowing alms. Sometimes, however, she wondered if they were all warranted and wanted, if she pressed too much and received scorn and derision from the wounded patriots and the jagged shards. Perhaps they wished to banish her from their sights, too much glory, too much ebullience, too much blinding their gaze from the blooming truth or the benevolence of nature, longing to extend their stay in the haunting danger of past traumas or brooding, brewing fixtures. And as they conversed, as she played and cajoled with the gilded Roland, maybe she’d driven herself too far, and the old nuance of exploiting, imposing, disturbing pressed down into her core, and the luminous glow washed away for fear of foolishness and shame. If the nymph explained, if the sylph pried, would he retract, flee, regale her with swift nonchalance and cool disposition, glare at her with indifference, or even worse, callousness? Would she lose their quiet, gallant regards? Or would she merely plunge into ineptitude and idiocy, roll and reel amongst the clamors of vacuous, witless pursuits? None of the options seemed appealing, but she refused to blend into cowardice and recant, renounce, her prior follies, forever the brave, valiant, stalwart; perhaps tracing over scars and darkness no one yearned to share. The belle had backed into her own provocation, with too much to lose or gain.

Her lips curled into a thin line, and her stare traced elsewhere, over the buds of new leaves or stems of solid bulrushes, waiting for the earth to either condemn or consume her, swallowed by the Wonderland fronds and a Cheshire grin lurking in the shadows. When none of this occurred, only a long, steady silence as his query still hung and bellowed in her ears, she inhaled a deep, coaxing breath, willing sonnets and stanzas to float and sway in the summer breeze. “You seemed lost, hesitant…detached.” She knew what it felt like, the remorseless bounty of inauspicious desolation scorching and scaling over hides, pricked and punctured into minatory delusions, hiding amongst the knotted gallows and slinking amongst boughs and boundaries; hoping for an opportunity to no longer be considered filth and dregs. But if that wasn’t his story, then she’d meandered, wandered, crossed into other boundaries altogether, and there could be further reasons for his favored solitude and withdrawal from the world (but then – why did he come to the Basin later, as seasons turned into another? What changed his mind? What altered his plans?). Was it due to his occupation, sliding amongst the shadows and veils, piercing sleuth emblems, and raising icy banners under covert, furtive, specious covers, whispering valid secrets to kings and queens? Chased and burdened by circumstances, a cyclical pattern of shaping commitment from a distanced angle, dissolving traces of their portraits and tapestries when he was ready to depart? His words to Caneo recoiled over her memories, the sharpened, piercing notions she could lose him just as easy as everyone else, drifting off into midnight decadence with no words, no goodbyes, joining her other missing companions on the banks of mysteries and misgivings. The notion scalded her skin, murmured heathen raptures in her ears, and seemingly goaded her into another stature of bravery – her steadfast stare shifted back into his blue gaze, and her emboldened words pierced, stung, into the warm vestiges. “Do you still prefer to be alone?” And behind her gaze, the unsaid query enlightened, sparked, incised: Am I a bother?

@[Roland]