There was a challenge laced and laced through his words, through his intonations, through his struggle to decipher her meaning. The Mender, the Songbird, had lived her life by waltzing amidst adversity; it glimmered in her brow, it sparked in her heart, it traversed and clambered in a muted glow along her otherwise plain figure. It gave her spirit and wonder, audacity and splendor, a sizzle, a crackle, of the old world she’d long since left behind (because once, she’d been the epitome of virtue, a paragon, a saint, drifting in and out of smiles and tides and trying to hold everything together – when war descended the first, the second, and the third time, she’d thought herself entirely spent on benevolence and charity). The lithe swallow remembered a time where she first began to assuage and soothe another on the bold, intrepid, gruff way he told her she couldn’t, the willowy nymph recalled a time where she was told she was worthless and she drifted in and out of moors and trappings and snares proving there was a reason for her existence. The beatific sylph recollected a painted mare, a friend, a comrade, driven to lunacy, to madness, and singing, singing, singing any tune to rid the wicked world of its calamity (and how it’d worked, even when they just ended up being broken shells and splintered vessels, lost in a sea of catacombs and immorality). She could replay a thousand scenes where she’d fought and cherished and believed in something few did; daring, emboldening, tracing and sketching the fine lines of what the world dictated, and what she chose to do instead. The maiden could’ve been a damsel, could’ve been a harpy, could’ve been a banshee, an Amazon, and in the end, she simply chose to exist on a plain of rhapsody and upheaval, staring at behemoths and harpooning the world with vigilance, with melody, with song until love somehow managed to conquer all the vicious, swirling hate.
 
Maybe he didn’t believe her; too cynical, too immersed in the tyrannical, mercurial sways of the earth. Maybe all the beautiful, poignant lines of his stars weren’t fixated on the horizon or the heavens, but the sinister wake of too many lies and too many wasted spells. Maybe she was in the minority again; out of reach, out of time, out of reasons for maintaining her wild, fey composure in a realm that would soon have it snuffed out. But Lena always dared to dream, to defy, to aspire and believe grand, opulent, magnificent things could happen if one only tried, if one only had faith, had confidence, and had determination lining their bones. If she was made of anything, anything at all, it was conviction, hope, and bright, brilliant symphonies.
 
Her eyes didn’t dim, fade, or become muted, petulant things. Instead, her grin twisted in a light, fairy way, as if she’d heard provocations all her days and always responded to them with an airy visage, with a serene, tranquil regard, never quite discomfited by a question or query. They became solely fixated on him, the man twilight and evening etched into his skin, pondering over the way he’d been shaped and lanced and brought up into the void of Helovia, incapable of hearing the music, the heart, of its rapture and grace. Her explanation started on a blissful note, brewing in a warm, delicate zest, an ardent, passionate display, allowing her gaze to simmer back and forth between him and the echoes of the peaks and valleys well beyond. “The mountains sing dark, wicked, and beautiful things. They’re drenched in hard tunes and resolute sonnets, sometimes cold, something chilling, but always alluring.” To prove her merit, she began crooning a few chords, simple hums, drawn and molded from all her seasons spent amongst cliffs and snow, closing her eyes to cherish the possessive, ensnaring melody, waxing poetical through a poignant melodies. When she’d finished one, the Songbird moved into another explanation, granting and bestowing a private concert, a covert symphony, for the stranger flanked by the heavens. “The rain is gentle, assuaging, and soothing, like a lullaby.” Therein she maneuvered again, pressing her lips together and establishing an enigmatic flourish of pitter-pattering droplets, before opening her mouth and extending a wondrous hallelujah, a transfixing embrace of peace and repose and sanctuaries too far gone, too ruined, to still exist. On his last inquisition, she merely laughed, a fortress of ambience amongst feral pixies and keepers of the divine. “You just have to listen.”
 
Lena’s head tilted a fraction, mimicking Imogen’s station and status amidst her legs, ears flicking and listening to the answer of her own question – granted a name for all the daring and valor, for all the confidence and intrepidity. She wondered how broad his shoulders were, if he’d been named to carry the earth, the world, on his back, or if he tried once, and received nothing in return for his attempts. The femme practiced his name on her lips, granting it along her tongue with a tender, caressing air, “Atlas,” and a bow to her chest in good measure. Then, because she could be brazen and impudent too (and wanted to prove, somehow, someway, that there was still a fire in her soul), she produced her own inquiry (and if he saw some sort of mischief in her gaze, it could’ve been a teasing reflection of the moon or the stars). “What do you hear now?” Chiseled into the quiet, she released him back into silence.