She was already lost, so she permitted the wind and the comets to take her, abscond her heart, her mind, her soul, until her essence reeled with the possibilities of light and darkness, until she transcended into the floating abyss and became strung together by airy elements. Ignited and enlightened, carried by the billowing, autumn breeze and the chilling, rapacious effects of a starlit sky, she danced in a timeless reverie, cascading and rippling, dazzling and ensnaring, proceeding through puddle, through muck, through liquid and sapphires and triumph, searching for something beyond bitterness and menace. Unrestrained, unbound, the Songbird was a tempest, was a myth, was a nuance, a painting, a tapestry, a canvas of faith and determination, compassion and tribulations, soft, silken movements, removed from the earth and painted into design. The femme coveted, carved, traced, and sketched finite lines of hope, of perseverance, of all the little glimmers, shades, and hues beneath the twilight sky, begging for the stretch of salvation still enamored and intertwined with her spirit. Vulnerable and delicate, then strong and stalwart, she basked on the edge of survival and the ruffian opulence of defiance, furrowing her brows as elegance, as refinement, as dignity swallowed her motions and stirred her vigor; features rendered in repose thereafter as she closed her eyes and sang unwavering lullabies and saintly benedictions, as she marched to the hymns, to the stanzas, to the strains of things she’d faltered away from. She pranced to laurels and roses, blooms and florets, petals and satin, taffeta and lace, whimsical, capricious barbs of a nymph, of a sylph, of a fairy with severed, disheveled wings, trying to piece and mend and sew them back together. Hallowed eaves awakened her strength, roaming and whispering and crooning their slender, soothing chimes, revitalized and renewed the carillon bells, the beatific carols, the sweet, nurturing sounds she hadn’t replicated in seasons, in ages, reclaiming bits and pieces of her heart. Imogen maneuvered with her, ivory and sienna, tainted and devoured, but still illustrious, still potent, still armed with ethereal grace and beautiful, regal armor – two entities, embodying the constant cycle of deliverance, menace, and forgiveness. Gone were delightful days, the jovial pinnacles, the intoxicating reveries, but it didn’t mean they couldn’t bring them back.
 
They dreamed below the wondrous lights and the brave verses, the lilting arias and the valiant harmonies, would’ve spun their works and opuses and oeuvres until the sun rose and dawn claimed its aura. They would’ve proffered the heavenly rites with their own symphonies, with their own notes, just to see if the world still remembered fanciful, tender, kind creatures. They would’ve hummed, trilled, and whistled, garnished gold, savored silver, plunged into further ardency – had another’s voice not crossed over their senses.
 
The Mender was immediately taken away from her reverie; the illusion scattered, just behind clouds and fixtures. Her eyes opened and her movements splintered into fractious decrees, obviously bewildered, shocked, and surprised; tender heart beating a makeshift crescendo of misalignment. A breath filtered and flickered into the chilling vestiges as one lingering puff, chest heaving, gaze startled, head shifting to glance at the stranger.
 
If at all possible, her eyes widened further, for he was made of stars.
 
He seemed one endless constellation, a figment of painted, heavenly, celestial bodies, an endless sculpture designed by gods to remember the art of the empyrean, of paradise, of utopia. He radiated otherworldly creation; a masterpiece woven by deities, and she felt very small, very plain, standing near this fragment of brilliance. She had no idea who he was – she would have remembered his face, his stance, his hues for a lifetime because they matched the beauty of the world above them, twinkling and maneuvering and shaped by spirits beyond their fortitude.
 
Had he fallen?, she wondered, past the galaxies and enigmas, driven to folly, to flaws, to tragedy, to live life as a mortal, as a blade, as a forgotten sun?
 
In awe, in beguilement, in allure and shock, she’d nearly forgotten he’d asked her something, and her mind churned, reeled, calculating, and absorbing the query he’d felled into the mist. Imogen chirped from below, resting at her now idle hooves, bestowing hope and guidance and strength through their connection while she fumbled for answers, convictions, and action.
 
Your song, he’d said, digging a dagger into the melody, where did you learn it?
 
Her eyes lowered for a moment, posturing for an adequate response – because she hadn’t learned the tunes from anyone in particular – just the birds, just the flowers, just the eternal abyss, just the peace, love, and nurturing sliding from peaks or reigning from shadows, a blur of glowing peace, an enduring chord of salvation. The Songbird’s stare riveted back to him, to all the celestial concoctions, to all the spellbinding flares, resounding her response with a smile, with a grin. “From the birds, petals, and the mountains.” Honeyed gaze wandered to the puddles, to the wide-open expanse, to the bright, glimmering moon, then back again, never losing the reign of absolution along her hide. “Sometimes the rain or sun offers a tune as well.” Then, she pilfered and pried, daring because he’d dared, and she wanted to touch, to trace, the way she’d once been – alive and free and unafraid of where her strength, her convictions, may take her – blending mellifluousness into the nocturnal veil. “I’m Lena. Who are you?”