The sylph waited for his appraisal on the flickering, dying edges of embers, coiling back into their folds and ashes, flowing into the regime of summer, cascading into the reams of light. Her gaze followed his, along the furrows of captivation, of wonder, of beguiling, tremulous allure, and her heart beat at a tremendous crescendo, waning and billowing, a flaring roar hollowed and hallowed inside her chest. The delicate portions of her soul always yearned for stretches of approval, the notion she’d succeeded, the sentiment she’d triumphed, rather than sunk into a miserable contortion of life and immorality that shouldn’t have belonged to her. The quest and crusade had been a series of consternations, whether she’d been too bold, too fierce, whether she’d placed a dear friend in the middle of a fray, whether she’d been conquered and defeated by her own selfish whims, but the quirk of his smile, the spark of his voice, was enough to assuage the frayed foibles and fancies. At his laugh, the fairy blossomed, effervescent and ethereal, sparked and kindled and stoked by the fibers of his acceptance (and when had he never given it?, Imogen remarked), easily granting her the confirmation, the credence, the faith she’d so eagerly craved. Her smile widened and entranced, dappled its way through her gaze, danced and waltzed in the fine timbre of merriment, slipping and sliding into avenues of pride, of wistfulness, of traces and trances of affirmation; she’d faltered, she’d stumbled, but still crawled her way through the primrose path and remained supreme. The notches of his delight towered over hers and spellbound the finesse, the grace, of her prior nerves, soothing the fringes, savoring the delicacies, ghosting and warming her skin with subtle, finite raptures. Perhaps in his presence she could be anything and everything, scale every wall, fortify every rampart, scorn every enemy, because he believed she could, and some enduring quality in her, past the resolution, past the determination, always required a little more guidance, a little more encouragement. Molded and sculpted in the Thief’s chivalry, the Songbird fluffed her wings and shared her laughter, easy, singsong, magnificent and mellifluous as the most dangerous of her melodies; solidifying the traces of their adventures, while not without peril, had been worth the arduous, agonizing contortions. Perhaps, with Roland’s acquiescence, with Roland’s charismatic swing, she didn’t need to dwell around the roots of their trials, riddle and pull and snarl her way through thorns and thickets, and simply be, exist, enjoy. Life didn’t always have to be about the licentious conceits creeping around them, about the melancholy swallowing them whole; the gilded brigand reminded her of that, time and time again. So the fey, illustrious and healed, ebuillient and whole, tugged her way back into teasing measures and giggles, for coaxing the sounds from him, from herself, were more satisfying than the haunting works of noxious holidays. Sorrows had been chased away, clouds had been vanquished, dragons had been slain – all by one flaxen Thief.

Imogen, smirking at the water’s edge, sly and subversive, innocence be damned in the course of her snicker, held and snatched glory too, basking in the glow of Roland’s admiration. She batted her long eyelashes in a magnificent display of vanity, putting Narcissus to shame, and preened, fangs extended across her impish smile, wandering close to the golden’s long legs, weaving in and out of his limbs, twining her ivory tails back and forth, chirping and extending his wonderful efforts at pointing out her dangerous, amazing capabilities. At one chirrup, she parted her jaws and released a few puffs of smoke, promising fire and brimstone, while Lena giggled all the more, shaking her head in disbelief. In a mocking scolding tone, she likely could never truly rebuke, reprimand, or admonish the gilded stag that continued to release her from every cage she built around herself, her melodic chords slid into the sunlit sky, lacquered and tipped with serenading humor. “Don’t give her any ideas!” The exuberance continued in the holy reverence of Lena’s grin, formed and composed all for him, her frame sidling closer to stand nearer to his gilded essence, wind hastening charms and tassels to flutter and twirl in its corporeal, tangible fingers. Her eyes settled along his strong presence, took a few idle instances to soak in his warmth, his essence, his spirit, openly admiring the entirety of his being. For a few seconds, she even took to staring at the ring around his horn, how neatly it fit, how it matched, how it conspired, how it gleamed, already marked and ensconced as his. The smile reappeared, indulgent and curious, the sway of her lips parting again to extend the treaty of questions and acclaim. “And what have you been up to?” Her head tilted, inquiring, teasing, and alluring, a mischievous enticement branching and weaving through the elegant swing of the rapturous breeze – truly yearning to know – but granting him a passing tide if clandestine, undercover snippets were meant to remain furtive. “Gathering secrets?”


@[Roland]