stars and butterflies

There was never a true absence of fear – even the bravest, the strongest, the mightiest of demons, of angels, had things that drew apprehension along their skin, gasps tumbling from their mouths, hearts pounding, limbs trembling. The Songbird, for all her stalwart gazes, her honeyed glances, her perfected, composed zeniths, knew the taste of terror and trepidation. It breathed in the coils of her mind, when friends disappeared and she couldn’t follow them, wondering where they’d gone, if they’d return, if they’d stumbled out into the night and were never to be seen again – doomed, damned, consigned to oblivion far beyond her reach. It curled in the perfume of wildflowers, when she nestled in lilac, in lavender, in thistles, pondering who would be the next to leave her behind, if she was going to be swallowed by a vengeful opus, by a familiar face that detested her, by the monsters crowding the corners of her eyes. It fanned in the evening, when she slept, when she dreamed, hoping they would be in gorgeous hues and colors, when all that slithered behind her stare was a dungeon of mirrors and reflections – showing each and every face she’d perfected, she’d performed, she’d staged. But she conquered them in steps, in slow minuets, in compositions spiraling over the bright, sundry skies and the pale, waxen moon, in songs and sonnets clinging to days not wasted, not foiled, by the claws and rasps of history. Sometimes it was more difficult to see beyond the unrelenting forces she’d once scraped and seethed upon, the hatred she’d once billowed and serenaded, the selfishness she’d once employed and ravished, but the nymph tried anyway. It was all she could ever do – try, try, and try again – until one triumphant moment would come swinging in and she would’ve conquered the poignant spells glossing over her mind. It was getting better, bit by bit, piece by piece, for Lena was made of more than loss and secrets, more than specious intricacies and blossoms, soft petals and dulcet movements; she was resolution, she was perseverance, and she was tenacity, all on a rapturous harmony.
 
They maneuvered, one ivory fox, one sienna fey, into the lengths of the ancient catacombs, and the rush of memories clambered over her spine. There’d been the weeks spent in its confines, rooted and secured, protected and safeguarded, from those who’d been called friends (and in their place had been dangerous, treacherous, horrifying monsters, like dear, sweet Kahlua, who’d always grinned and smiled, then twisted around to bite her flesh). There’d been the hours tethered with Roland, glancing at lantern lights and fairy dust, taking in moments of strength and fortitude in little waterfalls and pools, dancing evenings and days away because it was better than silence, better than dismay. She avoided that particular room, not ready to face the resplendent glow again, afraid she’d be caught, trapped, once more. Perhaps there’d been stars in there too, and she’d just never noticed them.
 
Imogen puttered onward, ahead of her, turning and twisting around corners, remembering all the paths, all the trails, they’d traveled in the midst of disaster and ruin. As they rounded towards another aperture, faint, glimmering light guided their motions, the sound of a voice – a recognized pitch of vocals, sad and despondent – echoed along the cavern wall, bouncing, reverberating, intently into the Mender’s ears. She stopped for a moment, uncertain if she should be prying, if she should be listening, or if she should be wandering, wayfaring, further and further away, allow someone the privacy of their woes and melancholy. But the vocals were hauntingly familiar (in more ways than one), strong, then fading, a spring, a coil, of reverence and pain. I am afraid. Her gaze landed on Imogen for the smallest of seconds, and the kitsune’s eyes narrowed, cranium bowed, nodding, and they followed the light, airy crescendos, the beating heart of everything and everyone who’d ever lived (they were all afraid, in some form), peeking into the next room to see Tandavi, to see her companion, beasts she’d hadn’t seen in an eternity. "You've always been brave," she murmured before completely emerging into their midst, all rich veneer and lacquer, all petals and softness, might rippling on the warmth of her tenderness, of her generosity, of her swiftly, beating heart. Lena spoke again, "Tandavi," lowering her cranium on a note that sounded like reverence. "What are you afraid of?"

the songbird