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04-10-2016, 08:31 AM
I want to reconcile the violence in your heart
There was a certain sanctity, a tranquility, lingering along the depths of the spring blossoms and the melting snow, and her grin remained, so aloft, so poised, so elegant amongst the ruffled corridors. The femme, the fairy, had learned to appreciate the quiet, the hushed footfalls, the petal soft, ardent, dulcet feathers and silent serenity, especially when everything else yearned to give way to monsters, demons, and odious requiems. She studied him, closer now, beyond the scope of the boy Roland had brought from locked gates and nestled, cloistered groves, because he deserved to be more than the shadow who’d brought him amongst tempests and runes. He seemed older, maybe wiser, and she wondered if he’d been on incredible journeys since they’d last met, strong and enduring, restless and yearning, pressing on through thickets by sheer determination and will, or if he’d been among the many who turned away from things they barely knew for something else, something more. Those siren calls could be strong, especially when the ties to lands were not as taut, not as tethered (she’d escaped her own melancholies once, and then bridged gaps, wide berths of cliff tops and ruins, shuffled and shivered within icy caverns, only to find herself kept in glacial walls, always capable of fleeing but never doing so). He must have found a pinnacle, a rise, to stand upon and proclaim his loyalty, his prestige, his prowess, his ambitions, and her smile rested firmly along her lips and cheeks now, grateful he’d had a chance to find moments beneath the sun, moon, and stars.
In the midst of their silence, her eyes strayed to a hint of movement along his brow, instantly feeling foolish for not noticing the little creature beforehand (but she’d been distracted, deterred, hoping and praying for another figure that would never come). If possible, the fey glimmer rises, radiant and grand, a picturesque moment of glee and ebullience, along her features, mellifluous voice reaching past the curls of his forelock and to the unwinding, unraveling reptile slinking down his brow. “Hello there!” She knew of snakes in myths and legends; of their wiles, of their mischief, of their lies and temptation, how they could coax and inveigle, how they could entice and brew. But she proffered none of those claims upon the slender serpent, gaze taking everything in, Imogen bounding and chirruping, begging for a closer look. The Songbird regaled the lissome beast as cunning and shrewd, much like her own kitsune, and she pondered over the ways in which Caneo had come to claim it as his bonded – if he was so much more than just a silver face, if he begged, craved, and yearned just below the surface, if he ached and chiseled and sculpted his way through devious plans and enriched ministrations.
His voice called her back, away from the careful perusal, from the shining, beckoning study of newfound companions and the delight they brought. I’ve been away, and she almost laughed, because everyone always seemed to be away. It was almost commonplace, in a sad, pathetic way, to believe they’d leave her, the Basin, the caverns and crypts, the mountains and the summits, for more. Sometimes they were destined to settle their feet elsewhere, be it sand, soot, grass, or another world entirely, where darkness descended faster or light gathered quicker. She wouldn’t begrudge him that (but a sentiment, a notion, always stirred within her when she thought of all these losses, all these beings she’d known, cherished, all too rapidly; as if she’d had no stake in revering or admiring them, and they’d flee, back from where they’d came. She’d be alone again – a vicious, tormenting cycle). So instead of chiding, instead of scolding, instead of feeding the fire of disappointment, her eyes remain firm and noble, dignified and regal, nestled in her fairy queen expanse, in her snowy elements, in her glowing, resplendent boughs, so she didn’t have to remember the thorns keeping her in place. “But what a beautiful thing to have found on your journey.” The Songbird’s stare flicked back to the snake, smile still there, resilient and beautiful, a complete benediction through everything – she wasn’t sure which prevailed more amidst horrors and tremors, her heart or her soul. “She’s quite lovely.”
He stirred again, polite, bending to safe runes and easygoing queries, but she had naught to give him. She’d found love, and then heartache. She’d found loss. She’d found pain. All of those things were undying; they’d stay with her until she broke down into pieces and became bleached bones in the sun. She wished she’d found Roland, but her sojourns and crusades had been worthless, empty, vacuous things. She yearned to ask him, to question, to dip into that unknown, unsaid thing: have you seen him?, but the words only simmered on her tongue, grew to ghosts on her lips. “Only herbs,” she said with a bright laugh, with a subtle cheer, as if all she did was linger in the long hours, scouring the valleys and stars for plants to bring back to her people, to nourish them while forgetting herself. “Nothing as wonderful as your discovery.”
In the midst of their silence, her eyes strayed to a hint of movement along his brow, instantly feeling foolish for not noticing the little creature beforehand (but she’d been distracted, deterred, hoping and praying for another figure that would never come). If possible, the fey glimmer rises, radiant and grand, a picturesque moment of glee and ebullience, along her features, mellifluous voice reaching past the curls of his forelock and to the unwinding, unraveling reptile slinking down his brow. “Hello there!” She knew of snakes in myths and legends; of their wiles, of their mischief, of their lies and temptation, how they could coax and inveigle, how they could entice and brew. But she proffered none of those claims upon the slender serpent, gaze taking everything in, Imogen bounding and chirruping, begging for a closer look. The Songbird regaled the lissome beast as cunning and shrewd, much like her own kitsune, and she pondered over the ways in which Caneo had come to claim it as his bonded – if he was so much more than just a silver face, if he begged, craved, and yearned just below the surface, if he ached and chiseled and sculpted his way through devious plans and enriched ministrations.
His voice called her back, away from the careful perusal, from the shining, beckoning study of newfound companions and the delight they brought. I’ve been away, and she almost laughed, because everyone always seemed to be away. It was almost commonplace, in a sad, pathetic way, to believe they’d leave her, the Basin, the caverns and crypts, the mountains and the summits, for more. Sometimes they were destined to settle their feet elsewhere, be it sand, soot, grass, or another world entirely, where darkness descended faster or light gathered quicker. She wouldn’t begrudge him that (but a sentiment, a notion, always stirred within her when she thought of all these losses, all these beings she’d known, cherished, all too rapidly; as if she’d had no stake in revering or admiring them, and they’d flee, back from where they’d came. She’d be alone again – a vicious, tormenting cycle). So instead of chiding, instead of scolding, instead of feeding the fire of disappointment, her eyes remain firm and noble, dignified and regal, nestled in her fairy queen expanse, in her snowy elements, in her glowing, resplendent boughs, so she didn’t have to remember the thorns keeping her in place. “But what a beautiful thing to have found on your journey.” The Songbird’s stare flicked back to the snake, smile still there, resilient and beautiful, a complete benediction through everything – she wasn’t sure which prevailed more amidst horrors and tremors, her heart or her soul. “She’s quite lovely.”
He stirred again, polite, bending to safe runes and easygoing queries, but she had naught to give him. She’d found love, and then heartache. She’d found loss. She’d found pain. All of those things were undying; they’d stay with her until she broke down into pieces and became bleached bones in the sun. She wished she’d found Roland, but her sojourns and crusades had been worthless, empty, vacuous things. She yearned to ask him, to question, to dip into that unknown, unsaid thing: have you seen him?, but the words only simmered on her tongue, grew to ghosts on her lips. “Only herbs,” she said with a bright laugh, with a subtle cheer, as if all she did was linger in the long hours, scouring the valleys and stars for plants to bring back to her people, to nourish them while forgetting herself. “Nothing as wonderful as your discovery.”
the songbird
@Caneo
