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The Songbird wandered; out of tune, out of touch, pierced and woven with snapped and tangled threads. Were she a dove she may have burst from the horizon and clung to the heavens – were she a butterfly she might have glided towards nectar and ambrosia, drank until she was full of virtue instead of misgivings. But she was without wings, clipped and broken, living off of hopes and dreams never meant to come true, dancing and teetering off the edge and dregs of a world she’d always cherished, always loved, with naught else to guide her but the chipped portions of splintered aspirations. Her spirit, beneficent and compassionate, warm and tender, faded in its discarded chords, withered without light and sea, flickered with a saddened, despondent glow – because she’d fallen again, stumbled and fumbled and scraped away everything she’d worked so hard for – a hypocrite amongst thousands of oaths and creeds. She’d watched her comrades march into battle. She’d taken part in stealing away the lives of creatures, monsters, Gods, just as merciless, just as ruthless, just as decadent and barbaric and savage as the rest of them, becoming another soulless heathen; a healer, brought into the folds and sanctions of war.
No matter how hard she fought, she always managed to sink.
And maybe, just maybe, a little part of her who’d always been renewed and revived by the gilded countenance of a beloved Thief suddenly felt the sting, the lingering particles, of heartbreak festering and brooding, brewing past besotted lips and out into the corners of her chest – because he wasn’t here and he wasn’t there and the harder she looked the less she saw, the less she knew, the less she understood…her heart had been carried off into the wind and void. Perhaps, even then, she simply hadn’t been enough for anyone or anything.
The rolling tides failed to take away the charred fragments of her essence; sadness curled around her like a veil, distant and aloof, eyes staring over the patchwork of isles with no more than a trace of enticement. Breaths loosened in shuddering, stagnant sighs, and her harks twisted in various directions, honing in on the cries of gulls and the constancy of waves, cranium low, bent and angled towards the warm sand. Poor Imogen, unsure of how to tend to the natures of a cracked soul, chirped and clambered her way alongside her mistress, two whittled fairies losing their ability to fly. When they reached a cluster of rocks, a shamble of boulders a little ways from the sea, the fallen seraph, the shaken nymph, lowered herself upon the dunes, curling her forelegs and allowing Imogen to tuck into her side.
In the sun, Lena began to sing – bright and stark, striking and vigilant, coiling the deepness, the vigilance, the vehemence of her sorrow, of her confusion, into a lingering symphony. She sang to the birds with their matching trills, she sang to the palms tossed about in the wind, she sang to the listless mist hiding them from the world, and she sang to the beings she helped to destroy, begging for forgiveness (sorry, always so sorry for the lives lost and the souls shattered and the essences buried deep into the earth, never to be seen again).
She wished and she dreamed and she yearned to be so much more.
[Open to anyone! ^__^ Hoping to use this for character development. <333]
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