The songbird knew the art of self-sacrifice as if she’d painted every tapestry bearing its fruits and labors, dipped and stained the brushstrokes with her flesh and blood, with her warmth and ichor, with the latent insecurities and crippling apprehension, until each tremulous thread signified her contribution into a holy vow, and she’d be forgiven for something, anything, everything. Like a merchant of transgressions sown into the murk; the misery, the markings and makings of torn doves and infernal harpies, tied and warped and plaited in swooping schemes and haunted boughs. She’d carried the cruel intentions of violence, she’d witnessed the heroic ventures of the world, and she’d been lost to the merciless strikes of the barbaric – for each moment, the Mender believed she’d have to bestow an immolation so the heavens wouldn’t see her for what she truly was. She regretted and calculated, perceived and fought, drove her knees through the arches of peril and sang each beloved chord aloud so the realm could heal from all the wrongs, so her brethren could mend through their slaughtered mires, so the Basin could remain vigilant and strong. The ruminations of forgiveness, of pardons, of singing for absolution ran so deep through her veins that with each thrilling beat of her heart, she paved, carved, whittled, and tended, to tranquil spirits and wounded soldiers, and struggled to remember serenity’s corporeal form. But Roland – king of brigands and idle secrets, enchanted smiles and placating grins, wanted naught from her offer. Lena buried her gaze further into his skin and measured the weight of his acceptance of her: more than just a wielder of notes and stanzas, more than just a bestowal of kind words and effervescent spirit; the notion was overwhelming and she inhaled sharply, poignantly drawing the message through her mind. Without something to justify her behavior, because she’d performed poorly and it showed all through the pages of their deviated script, the nymph was lost, sunken into his depths and clattering haphazardly along the gilded ruse. Adamant and soft, coaxing all of these strange wiles into her head (worth something, not worthless), she etched herself closer to his gallant figure, pressed and sculpted her frame in all of the empty, fragmented spaces, left naught untouched as she craved the truth through his statements and blind faith in her tenacious will. Her maw rustled through the slender fragments of his chestnut locks, a thank you for his beliefs, grazed over the soft skin of his cheek, appreciation for his confidence in her steadfast invocations (even if they were tedious and foolhardy), and followed a fervent, ardent trail, kissing down the elongated structure of his neck because she wanted to.

When he pulled away, dipped his head to gather and gaze into her expression, she answered with a silent reverie, the gentle, dulcet cadence of her eyes, seemingly amused by something gathered behind their walls, the beginnings of another ruffian glow; an act for the future. She’d never be without worry, a bird always fretted about one thing or another; time’s motions simmering away at the juncture of peace, or the iniquitous air floating through the winds, the augured world and how whenever it prospered repose, chaos shortly followed, how eventually empires would need her sacrificial alms and arms again and she’d be at the ready, but she let the light, crisp summer breeze carry it off of her shoulders for now. The fairy, because once a fey, always a fey (even when their confidence waned and the pixie dust faltered in tones of the nonbelievers), raised her head, drove a stubborn line through her jaw, and pretended to court impishness again, refusing to take no for an answer. “Then I shall have to surprise you one day.” Her gaze narrowed, and Imogen chirped in mischievous delight, encouraging the turn from downtrodden into raptured enchantress, and Lena extended another wink, a generous grin. “When you least suspect it!” She softened thereafter, back into the whirls of humility and grandeur, where the moral turns crooned silken banners and charitable friendships, where she wondered what she’d ever done to deserve Roland and all of his benevolence. “You’re too kind – but thank you.” And perhaps, over time, she’d allow herself to believe all of his statements, let them settle, ghost, coast, amidst her mind until they sounded true.

@[Roland]