I know you she wanted to say, she wanted to dream, she wanted to hope – because his frame was a stranger’s but his eyes were all his own. Despite the layers of strength and fortitude, the chambers of determination laced and courted inside her soul, she couldn’t stop shaking. Her body was like a leaf on the wind, threatening to fall apart, to crumble into dust, to fly away on the next breeze, catching the snare of her name across his tongue. It was familiar, poignant, and haunting, a wraith toying with her sentiments, a ghost playing with her desires; her resilience felt brittle and worn in the company of phantoms. She almost looked away, wondering if her gaze locked onto bits and pieces of snow, of the forest, that her torment would be forgotten, disappear, a specter chased away by mettle and grit – but she found herself incapable of doing that as well, reaching ever so slightly forward when he drew into silence again, when veils and shrouds, masks and semblances fell away. The Songbird gasped once more as sable blended into crimson, as gold furnished beneath Stygian sinew, as all she remembered, all she cherished, all she loved fell back into place. She stared, stared, and stared, hushed, painting him in every fixture of her beneficence, in the riches of her kindness, the glorious memories and the heartbreaking beats of loneliness, still wondering if he was real, if he was corporeal, or if he was going to vanish under her glances, be united with the stars and her miseries. Somewhere in the moment she’d forgotten to breathe, and her lungs ached, her heart throbbed, her pulse quickened, until the cold air settled back into her chest and she stepped toward him again, shattering the stillness. Her voice finally found its way to her lips, to her tongue, quiet, afraid to speak too loudly for fear the illusion would die, would fade, on the smallest snippet of her joy. “Roland,” she murmured, whispered, on a hallelujah, on a reverential prayer resounding with mist and bliss, with virtue, with devotion. It was a serenade for mirages and yesteryears, seasons past, futures unspoken, neglected, forgotten because she’d been left again. The fairy openly stared into his blue gaze, unsure of where to go or how to proceed, before her heart, her mind, her body, her essence, took over.
 
She drew herself to him, as she had many times before, maw tentatively reaching for his broad shoulder, his brawny chest, with one swift, soft touch, like a dove’s wing, like a sigh, all dulcet and finery. The Mender waited for him to disappear beneath her brush, but when he remained whole, tangible, real, she rushed in, a fool, a silly, inept sparrow, lifting her head over his long nape and pressing her frame close to his, a tight, interlocking embrace. Only then did she feel the first flutter of tears trace down her cheeks, throat interrupting with tiny hiccups and sobs, pressing her lips into his vibrant, red portions of mane, shuddering despite their close contact. “I’m so angry with you,” she breathed into his skin without the aforementioned wrath – not a snippet of contempt woven from her soul, not a hint of acrimony sizzling from her touch. She wanted to be, for all those days trapped inside reflections and agony, for all those seasons searching endlessly for a beast who didn’t want to be found, for trying to understand, for attempting to contemplate, where she’d gone wrong and why she was never enough for anyone, for anything. She yearned to be boiling with enmity and rancor, to contort and recoil with such avid bitterness that he’d turn tail and run, that he’d cow before her, bend and break just as she had – but there was nothing left inside her but relief, consolation, comfort and solace, as if he were a sanctuary, a temple, a haven. The world had taught her boldness in his absence, however, had turned her inside out, had made her crave, had made her desire, had made her audacious, because no one else would fight for her, no one else would ever answer to her inquiries if she couldn’t give them voice, if she left them withering away in her essence, forgotten and deluded. The Songbird wished to know why she’d been consigned to oblivion, why she’d been discarded, why and how she’d managed to chase him away too, why she’d always be a ruin, a piece of benevolence so often neglected; but she’d have those answers soon enough (she was sure, she was certain – she deserved some annals of truth, even if they lacerated her heart and watched her break apart again). Instead, she turned her muzzle into his shoulder again, traced down the contours of his strength, eyed the lines of his ribs, and coiled another strain, another hymn, another aria, into the winter morning. “Where have you been?”