Repose distorted and heavy, laden with the puncturing slivers of discontent, of disappointment, lanced through her rigid backbone and gathered, nested in the back of her mind; the conjurer of regret and rue, corroded armor, rusted veneers. In the lingering moments, in the tied down facets of her queries, she felt small, insignificant, witless, and guilty, with no measures of tenacity, with no gleaming charms of inspiration and joviality, spinning her web of infernal fragments and idiotic iniquity. The queen of fairies was no longer in sight, toppled from her paragon pedestal, withering amongst the mortals, dethroned and de-crowned. She’d learned her lesson over secret sharing and prying hands, of bathing in ignorance and lavishing beatific smiles with no justification, no cause, trying to change the world with grins and benevolence. The realm didn’t adhere to her beliefs, didn’t bow down to her tenderness, to her generosity, and kingdoms would forget her warmth, her spells, her enchantments, her songs, because her impact, her presence, her existence, was so readily futile and unimportant. Perhaps she’d been too confident, too arrogant, flying on taffeta wings and strings, attempting to morph coldness into whimsy, possessing perseverance and persistence when no one asked for it, piercing through the callous, the fallen, the forsaken, only to become one of them all over again, adrift on the wind and battered in the boughs. The nymph fought the urge to sink back into the reeds, to crumple into the stream, to escape and flee from the hazardous wake she’d caused, ease her way up the gallows’ steps and pour refinement, harmony, back into her soul; so maybe these harsh, cruel moments could be forgotten, and she hadn’t completely ruined, mauled, and torn tapestries apart. She’d been selfish and inconsiderate, hoping, dreaming, wishing he’d want to stay amongst them forever, down into the reaches of eternity – going against his very nature to wander, to slink, to bury clandestine notations and uproot new cloaks and daggers. Her eyes left his, fearing his reply, mingling with the distant timbers and glades, focusing on shadows and ruins, wondering when she’d become so cruel, so ridiculous, so intertwined with follies and capricious sentiments; grating sibilance drowning out any of her once ardent birdsong. The sylph had battled against beasts, had waged war on at her sovereign’s request, and now, with these remorseful melancholies, knotted the collected shambles at the back of her throat, and waited for his rebuttal.

The songbird inwardly flinched at his echo, returned to staring at the ground, and listened to it bound across the bulrushes, patched and stitched in confusion. But the words thereafter, infused in honesty, sincerity, candor, caused her cranium to jerk back towards him, her fay figure molded into a stunned statue. Maybe she hadn’t a single clue or notion, but she’d always known what her friends meant to her: everything. She cherished the ground they walked on, she followed their plans, she advised and counseled their sentiments, she drew aspirations and laced their dreams together, but, perhaps recklessly, dimly, had never considered they felt the same for her. Like a sacrificial lamb, she committed to their bidding, to their happiness, with all of the power contained within her luminescent soul, empowered through their stalwart strength, through their valorous, intrepid dances. She’d carry the world upon her back if it meant her friends, her loved ones, were safe, secure, and liberated, but she didn’t know how far her connections traced, even to steadfast Roland. He wouldn’t be there without her? Had she truly been so thick? Had she actually become a source, a muse, of someone’s journey? Had she influenced, guided, and impacted him as much as he’d affected her? Her heart hammered in her chest as he crept closer, mouth dipped into a frown, and she began stammering out her apologies, slipping them through the cracks in her imprudence: “I’m sor-“ only to have them cut off by his touch, soft maw bending towards her dished cheek, strong, unyielding, unwavering. The sylph closed her eyes and melted into his caress, grew boneless as the gilded Thief repaired her broken quandaries and shattered essence, relinquished and threw away her infernal insecurities, made her feel like she was worth something. She opened her warm gaze and stoked her own embrace, layered unspoken, dulcet croons and penance into his skin, followed the sleek, golden line of his nape, caressed her mouth down the coiled muscles of his shoulder and murmured her apologies through its virile sinew, thought to hide her head in his chest, conceal the shame cloistered around her grace. She shivered, lilac, lavender tremors, floret blossoms and kindled possession, as he sketched the juncture of her neck, solid, corporeal, tangible and real, not fleeing into shadows or unearthly ramparts, twisting around so her lips found his throat and alighted the lightest, ghostly, sprite invocations, of kisses, offered aria potency around the coiled, curled frames. “I’m a fool.” Not the first, nor the last, time she’d have to utter the proclamations, or embark and ask for his forgiveness; she’d trampled too hard, gleamed too much, ruined diversions, and hurt both of them on her hunt for indulged curiosities. Her eyelashes brushed against his pelt, eyes closing to drown in his wake, breath mingling in his everlasting warmth. “How can I make it up to you?”


@[Roland]