The Songbird continued with the pretenses, laughed and giggled while pretending to fawn and swoon over the beauty and credence of the Galahad before her; but all the while, the undercurrent dampened her spirits, folded over the vibrant crescendos of mirth and merriment, closing in on the whimsical interlude. She bowed back to him, like a fanciful curtsy, attempted the smile to reach past her eyes and enlighten them with stars or wisdom, something befitting the moment instead of the frozen sanction of her chest beating a fluttering, haphazard wake. “I meant what I said!” The bubbling vocals harpooned and languished, sauntered and shimmied, danced a waltz she no longer felt like embracing. Lena was an ardent mixture of emotions and sentiments, willed and imparted into rabbit heart charades and tranquil edges, the serene vestiges wore away a carefully harbored port, sacrificing again and again and again until all she had left were those untarnished memories and wonderful images of times long since past. She didn’t want him to go – the notion was simplistic, but ruthless and selfish, and she bit into those fortifications enough times over to never yearn or warrant the irreverent invocations again. He’d always granted her freedom, liberated her motives and movements with reverent ease, immersed his gestures into allowing, into bestowing, such wonderful benedictions, and she’d wound her way through them, scaled grand heights, sown illustrious wakes, battled behemoths, sank into webs of fire and brimstone – all without judgment, all without penalty. She’d have to do the same for him: never daring to slip a noose, a snare, a lure over his nape and keep him strangled, suffocated, choking in place where he didn’t yearn to be. Roland had given her so many lovely artifacts, so many incandescent moments, and the least she could do for him was impart her benedictions, her benevolence, her kindness, guidance, and warmth, even if he was to fly away as she smoothed over her last words. She wouldn’t ask him to stay. She wouldn’t whisper or croon or murmur a single sonnet to chain him into ruins, into abominations, into wolfish, rapacious glee. The nymph, the sylph, the fairy, would leave so many things unsaid to ensure he followed the path he coveted, grin, avail him to future glories and passionate endeavors; no smile out of place, no tune out of melody. The fey would offer him what he’d always proffered upon her: liberation, deliverance. It was just and fair, and if it broke her heart, perhaps that was what she’d deserved for being mercenary, for being acquisitive. His plans would reign, would dominate, would settle scores, would ensnare sagacity and potency, and she, the elegant, lithe nightingale, would grow stronger too.

Even in the midst of all these unraveling thoughts, she wanted to be a part of the crusade. She wanted to go, she wanted to stray, she wanted to travel alongside him and provide all the endless strength, protection, he’d granted to her, but her eyes flickered along his frame, suddenly tense, rigid, taut, and the sentiments ended abruptly. There was a chance her presence would be a nuisance, a flaw in the scheme, a broken piece of the puzzle, and she’d ruin it before everything could be started or unraveled. The femme curled the sentiment back on herself, added one more secret to her parcel of enigmas and labyrinths, ignored the sullen sigh framed by Imogen’s unsubtle frown, fixating her stare back over mountain tops and caverns, distant, rolling valleys of her home, something she cherished, something she adored, struggling to impart syllables and phrases into the sudden silence.

But prior smiles and well wishes must have played their part; the gilded relaxed, and she loosened a breath she’d been holding. His quiet gratitude ruffled the curl of her grin back in place, but something told her he still wouldn’t take her, still wouldn’t search for her when the time was right, and maybe that was okay too. The lithe creature fought against sinking her head into the embankment, remained stoic and calm, composed, charming, effervescent as the wind wound its way through their voices, turning them hollow, then hallowed. When he offered his touch, she took it, leaned into it, embraced it for some laced farewell, preferring the ghostly touch of his breath, of his caress along her cheek than naught at all, kept it tucked in the forefront of her mind for the days to come. She accepted it, every little bit and piece of disappointment and apprehension, like a persevering, enduring paragon, smiling in spite of the choking hold over her heart. “When will you go?” Her eyes didn’t seek his, wandering over the arches and lilting stream, lanced towards the horizon, too grateful for his stroke, not moving away from its semblance, from its tangibility, pressing it to memory, to fixation, while her voice remained strong and undaunted, the finesse of taffeta strings and mighty minstrels.


@[Roland]