Her mind spiraled in twisting, contorting convolutions, rebelling against the outer walls of peace, of serenity, and choking down molten bits of hell. No longer a hallowed vessel, naught more than a mere shell, she stayed upon the shoal and sand, clung over waves of embers and acrid smoke clogging her lungs. Behind her closed eyes, all she could see, all she could picture, were the biting, nipping, scathing rasps of fire, of burning emblems, proud, dauntless infernos, entangling her flesh until there was nothing left but shattered memories and one last song. For a few scarce moments, she gave into the pain, felt it shatter, felt it break, felt it pound across her skin, along her hide, and she was alone with the notion of condemnation, ceasing the ardent fight. The Songbird permitted it to simmer, to scorch, to flail, to remind her of rancorous ambitions and foolish aspirations, to bestow her the notion of shame, of ineptitude, of just desserts and useless victories. There was an infernal requiem cloistered to her membrane, and it floated beside the agony, alongside the misery, like a toxic flame: ”let go” it sang in beguiling, alluring bells, called to her, a welcoming, amiable siren, serenading, spellbinding her to some other mortal plain. She wanted to call out to it, to reach for it, to ask where’d they go, what’d they do, if it meant leaving everyone she loved and cherished and beloved behind, but her lungs were too charred and her limbs were too weak and she descended back into her infernal wretched world. The Mender stayed and strayed amongst her petulant gallows, floating between the waves of torture and staunch, stalwart resolution, fighting against the crackling ash and the distorted torment, yearning to find a way to return to the surface –

Parting through the waves, were voices, she was sure of it, far louder than the whimsical tides of the deadly temptress, vibrant and wonderful, eager and bright. The sylph clung to the sounds, to the hums, to the hymns, because they were more beautiful, more regal, more gallant than all the wiles of fatal enticement, providing a tether, a link, to something beyond despair and distress. Amidst the blaze and damnation, strummed a familiar beat, an aching chirp, a vigilant coil of companions and love, of bristling pride and revered crescendos, and she smiled in the wake of her misery. Come back, the little white vixen crooned and whispered, then demanded in one singular swing of desperation, and while Lena clawed, tore, and ripped through the coal shackles, another voice merely said her name. Harmonic and lamenting, it was a rasping prayer grating and grasping, a Thief’s gilded presence without cage or nightingale song, missing pieces and arias. Her body responded in kind.

The hours of time measured their idle hands, their striking chimes, reached and plucked, scoured and searched for the lost seconds and instances of ruin and acrimony. They scavenged and unraveled, bloomed and blossomed, avenged and unfolded, gave meaning, gave hope, back into a life that carried them from soul to soul, from creature to creature. No songs played, no musings courted, no raptures unfurled, but the magic, the spells, the invocations, were still wrapped and enchanted, glorified and consecrated, spilling over the edges of heated wounds and barbaric flesh. Kind, willing, and benevolent, the powers granted to her finally gave back to their possessor, and with silent indulgence, picked apart the burnt nymph and sought to put her back together again. Unsung invocations, hushed raptures, courted and rummaged, laced woven fragility back over Lena; ignited hide became pink, fresh, new, scalded and corroded, but not littered and torn in bouts of wicked monstrosities. It wasn’t an entire expenditure, for even the potent fringe of might and dominion began to fray, but the misery had become a muted glow, a stubborn ferocity clinging to the back of her skull. When they relapsed back into her soul, back into her essence, she finally opened her eyes.

Greeting her was familiar, treasured, golden hide, masculine warmth, shuddering breaths and silent oaths. She yearned and desired to lean into its steadfast glow and be tucked into its strength, its rhapsody, be buried and smothered by its fire, but she’d already committed enough selfish acts for the day. Curled and coiled, sunken and sculpted by infernos, she yearned to ensure the brigand hadn’t met the same horrific fate. At first glance, she thought perhaps, despite her best efforts, he’d been wounded, and she opened her charred lips and crackled her scorched lungs to ensure he was well. “Are you okay?” Imogen chirped somewhere in the background, delighted and assured, expressing well-wishes and don’t ever do that again; the nymph absorbed that as well, and indented one corner of her lips in a sly grin, an angel besting death for one more day.

@[Roland]
- For Sun God quest. ^_^]