They maneuvered along the rocky coast, tied to the treasures, to the golden sands, to the twists and turns of the isles, listening to the sea breeze, bending to the unwavering sun, to the summer vestiges as they immersed, enchanted, and spun one last grace. Her heart swelled at the flicker of a gull’s wing, at the slide of a cloud, at a fin rising from the tides in the distance, all lingering and laboring on, wondering what it would be like to chase after the notions, the sentiments, the whimsies she craved, instead of being anchored and moored on an island of her own making, stuck between boulders and silliness. The forest was a temptation, with its jungle intellect and insistent growls; like the pulse of a panther’s tail, the yawn of a cougar’s powerful mouth, but she didn’t stray from the shells and shoal, paying heed to the darker threads nearby, to the enticement of ruin, riches, and fortunes, to the unspoken void curling and coiling beyond. She stayed where it was safe, where she could see distant shorelines, where she could imagine running across puddles and pools, dancing along star-lit groves and Elysium’s gardens, because that was her role in life – to be a sanctuary, to be a safeguard, to veil and shroud and ensure everything and everyone around her was completely, utterly guarded. The declaration included herself too, locked and contorted, away from miscreant wares and vagabond distortions, eyes widened and speculating, thoughts broadened and senses heightened; everything a mystery, but rarely explored.
 
She spared Imogen a fond glance, a silly tune, only flicking her ears when the corresponding whistle wasn’t one of the kitsune’s – the vixen answered with only an arch of her brow, an impish wane to her grin, a merry leap across the silt. Lena followed the strain with her crown, with her gaze (but should’ve known who the composer was without a second thought), until it landed on constellations and galaxies, on twilight evenings and luminary abysses; what she imagined the world looked like if it was always guided by nocturne’s spell. The nymph was struck into an eerie sort of silence, the kind bound by poignancy and haunted murmurings, by spirits’ whispers, by intertwining stars and celestial beings, and by the bitterness of the unknown and scales of rue. Her regrets were instantaneous, blinding and scorching against her soul all over again, and she struggled not to drop her cranium and gaze at the ground, where the crabs would scurry and the dunes would remain quiet, the only other evidence to her inanities. But he’d taught her not to let her stare linger there – to gaze up and up, towards the mountains, the heavens, the sky; her gaze landed somewhere in between, along the glimmer of his mismatched eyes. The nymph tried to read them, attempted to see if he was angry, irritated, or exasperated with her, at finding her here, at being in her presence again after she’d wiled away their last meeting – truly lost in the sea of green labyrinths and foils (suddenly, she wanted to go back there again and make things right, justify the reasons behind her mercurial moments, polish over the roughened veneer she’d exposed). She couldn’t tell what laid there though, in either the gold or the blue, if his voice reached out to tease or to tell her everything was fine, if he expected her to snap again, lay out ruin through calm announcements and proclamations, or to furnish her siege with more fire, more brimstone, more anguish. The fairy didn’t even know what to say to him, how to respond, and where to let it all fall again.
 
She had questions and queries - Does that disappoint you? That Fate led you here? - but none of them were given any voice, any clamor, any reverberation; she’d already caused enough damage. The intertwining nuances laced and threaded through her mind though, trying to right the wrongs, attempting to assuage the bindings she’d broken, one side of her smile appearing, a little cracked, a little frayed, but still tangible. “I lost my temper last time. I apologize.” Her crown bowed a little, but no tiara fell, no laurels withered, no feathers snapped or crackled, then she lifted her head back up again, staring back at him, waiting – no retreat made.