They were going to play the same game, and she knew it well. The Songbird had managed to entangle and thread her way through the pretenses, through the ire, through the fire and smoke for most of her life; never divulging secrets, never scaling past walls, never daring to peek over fortifications to see if the coast was clear, never telling anyone or anything what hurt the most. The fairy wondered how far they’d have to prove that they were all right and whole, forgoing notions that those who mended were sometimes the ones who required healing the most. Tossing her elegance, her smile, into the scenery, she delved and dived into her role immediately, crafting a fairy whimsy, a fey essence, while her curiosity brewed and curled. Imogen chirped back at Hemlock and Lena serenaded the hoots with gleeful melodies and warm sentiments, pretending she didn’t dare sneak a peek at the infected flesh riddling Alysanne’s hide, mauling the once-perfected tones of ivory and onyx. All lightness and air, all silliness and fronds, all dulcet whims and mercurial endeavors, she wondered, she listened, she recited her lines, word for word, indulgence for indulgence, expressing amusement when all she truly did was worry about her winged companion, the lacerations she didn’t deserve, the pain she didn’t earn.
 
Oh, I’ve been alright, she answered, and Lena took back the notion to swing her head and argue the point. She fought the lie with compassion, with tenderness, with the sun’s reverent caress and the cool, idle strokes of the ocean, honeyed hums, and ignited strength, wanting so desperately to pull on the threads of time and whittle away at the blighted hole clawing at the pegasus’s flesh. Would she care if her whispers became songs, sonnets, mellifluous art renewing over tirades and tribulations? Or would that be going too far, breeching over ramparts and citadels, reaching out to where she didn’t belong, because if Alysanne wanted her to know, she would’ve told her? How much of her grin was forced beyond the pain and torment? How much misery emboldened her to slip into lines and dictations, into stages and grace? “I’m glad you’re well,” she bestowed, charming and effervescent, reverent and rapturous, searching for an indication that she could heal her friend’s broken, rattled essence before it consumed her.
 
Then, it was the Time Mender’s turn to invent deceptions and falsehoods; she’d never tell her of Roland disappearing, of thieves becoming ghosts, of staring out into the abyss and not knowing, not understanding, who she was anymore – how much she missed her strength, her radiance, on days that never seemed to end. Everything was etched and sketched on hearts and lace, on taffeta and pearls, on delicacy and strains, as if one more weighted, blunt edge would send it all falling back into its infernal abyss, and she’d be lost again. “I’ve been fine.” Fine covered all the bases, from forgotten to deluded, from charmed to abandoned, from reverent to desolate, isolated, and shambled. Neither, it seemed, dared to touch upon what was right in front of them, but too gentle, too afraid, on what would truly harm the other. So the seraph continued to coast on her thin, meager threads, waiting for the string to fray. “We’ve begun building a greenhouse. Your Glaziers are very talented.”