The intricate, woven threads spread over the silly, fumbled stitches appeared to have worked their charm – her walls remained standing and upright, barely dissolved, cast as stone and not rebel rubble. Charismatic ties and appealing grace kept her afloat, kept her aloft, kept her from swinging down into the burrows of the unknown, of the uncertain, of the blinding, fleeting glimpses of what could be and what she’d once had, what she’d grasped before everything seemed to crumble, bit by bit, until there was naught but her hate mirrored in dastardly reflections. She didn’t want him to see the nuances of selfishness sprung between her heart and curled around her edges. She didn’t want the world to know, to witness, to comprehend the magnitude of ineffectualness behind the benevolence and kindness, smoldering past the stalwart tunes and the mellifluous arts. The nothingness was safer; all paltry rimes and glorious, silly moments sprinkled on puddles and drops of nocturne, forgotten, tucked away, never quite treasured, never quite remembered for the vulnerability, for the weakness, for the layers nestled underneath. She could smile and admire, he could grin and stare, and they could part without confidences unraveled, without betraying their facets, without provoking great, grand, furtive wiles (but wasn’t it sad, she thought, that no one would truly know her? That those who’d watched her cross over meadows, who’d seen her hunt down herbs or strike against foes, had no idea where she’d been or what she’d done, how she’d faltered, stumbled, and rose, valiant but scorned, staunch but tarnished? And was that even a noteworthy story to tell? Did she matter in the slightest? Was she just a speck on the horizon? A blip on the scene?)

Her smile still remained as her gaze strayed from stars and oeuvres, masterpieces and opuses, to the heights and scenes beyond the expressive abyss. She listened for his answer, for a puzzle unfurling from its stellar beams and virile spells, expecting simplicity, for naught, for a morsel, a sprig, of silliness or impishness, as if his grin held nothing else, as if these were just passing, fleeting whims of autumn and recklessness. But his reply startled her out of the strange reverie, so much so that slivers of her pixie, fairy, fey mask fell, her eyes widened, her jaw parted, and the breath she was unaware of holding loosened from her lips.

You’re looking at it.

Lena’s mind pulsed and her heart ached and somewhere in the middle, her sentiments, her thoughts, drew a firm, tangible line. Even while a fair dusting of pink rushed over her cheeks, even as her eyes stared back into his own – caught, enticed, seized – she balked and fought and impeded. He couldn’t possibly mean her or them or anything else transpiring between the twilight and the constellations, the alluring, beguiling, spellbinding figure he chiseled and the fluttering speculations grasping at her thoughts. Perhaps he alluded to the entangling wind and the prosperous gaze of the moon, perhaps he was admitting his adoration of the beautiful, enchanting lands they stood upon, or perhaps he just came up with something to trick, deceive, and drive back her own line of duplicities – but as his gaze remained utterly, wholly fixated on her, she realized her own self-deceptions were flimsy at best.

Why couldn’t he see she wasn’t deserving of him? Of anyone?

Hadn’t she told Roland she wasn’t worthy of him? Hadn’t he learned as they traveled between ghosts and mirrors, as they meandered past wraiths and phantoms, indulgences of the past and fruitions of the future, that she was pathetic, shameful, and despicable? Wasn’t that why he’d left her all those seasons ago, locked and quartered away where no one could’ve found her, where she could’ve withered away, desolate, forlorn, trapped by her own foolishness?

Atlas, all stars and reveries, all gallantry and so many other unseen things, didn’t need to be snagged, snarled, or barbed because of her demons.

(But she couldn’t lie to herself – that the temptation was there, lurking and lingering, pushing past the raptures and the delicacies, the molten pathways she’d simmered and spoiled so many times – to think, to believe, to trust someone out there thought she was…)

She’d ruined it though, sang too many warbles, too many tunes, too many melodies. It wasn’t fair to drag someone else down into her trials and tribulations, into those monstrous incantations, into those treacherous, sinister reaches, and she said as much, quiet and distant, scaling more walls and fluttering near enclosed gates. “Don’t waste your opportunities on me,” the Songbird sung with hardly a harmony at all.

And then how she’d spend her second chance, as if she’d hadn’t foiled so many before. Her first had been meandering across the World’s Edge and believing it was to always be theirs – and then becoming so steadfastly warped, so utterly unraveled by danger and brutality. Her second could’ve been when they marched back into her old lands, in pursuit of vengeance and justice (because that’s what she’d told herself as she reached into the throng of mist and fog and tried to destroy another). Her third…her fourth…they all sparked and sizzled, failed and flopped, despite her perseverance, despite her determination, despite all the magnitude of her sweet, blessed heart. Her achievements were miniscule, but her failures were overwhelming. “I’ve already spent it, and likely the third and fourth too.” Her smile reappeared, but it was heavy and burdened, never reaching her eyes, never bearing the heartfelt whims she’d always yearned to proclaim.

The enticing, sultry urge, the impulse, surged again though, blistering and scorching, unwinding and emboldening, touching, stroking, caressing those mercurial, capricious inclinations, and she sighed. Her eyes lingered, traced, sketched over his frame as if compelled to brush the infinite galaxies resting there, the dreams, the notions, the what-ifs. Instead, she whispered, she murmured, she curled back over into the midnight splendor, and cruelly wished for more – the allusion pulsed, pervaded, took and stole. “It would be nice to chase the stars, though.”