She was quiet along the bridges of spring’s warm vestiges, swaying to a serene song, striving to remember what it was like before adversity – but it was something she’d always known, always comprehended, always understood from the very rooted stages of her infancy. She grasped what it meant to shatter too – down along rocks and regions, along crumbling castle walls and fallen figureheads, but she’d seen it, felt it, held the hardened slates of strength below the annals of agony. The seraph knew it was better to rise and remember the Reaper for his diligence, for his ambitions, and stoke the embers of their fires, to incense and honor him by becoming bolder, wiser, stronger, to do more than merely hope, dream, and wish, to make and carve their reality.
 
But the strokes would be very fine at first, wispy, short, blunt caresses on canvas; darker days before liberation, before benedictions, before virtue could come alive again. She saw the grasses sprout from the edges of the melting snow, the delicate embrace of renewal and rebirth, and pulsed from it, pervaded the world with her incandescence again – to make them remember what it was like to be audacious and stalwart once more. It floated through her like an unwavering, honeyed promise, sweet and dulcet, tender and compassionate, awakening the birds, the bees, the boughs with their fresh blossoms and emerging buds, immersing more bliss than she could ever recall, simply because they had to start anew, and it was better to reign in the arms of Birdsong than to wallow in absolute agony.
 
So she didn’t shatter, but rallied, fortitude and might chiseled through her lungs because she’d been born in such a stead – forgotten, abandoned, left to be consigned and proffered to whatever wild animal snagged her first – but the girl, the maiden, the fair, proud fairy had been more than just a useless floret, a bloom neglected. She sought the sunshine, the light, the press of earth, the angelic bliss of hopeful serenades and resolute convictions, and it had suited her well, rekindling her faith year after year. Some days, some hours, some seasons had been harder than others, when she faced down demons, when she lanced brutes, when she became corroded in scars and ailments, when she thought there’d be nothing more to her than hypocrisy and a heart drenched and drowned in melancholy, but she’d grasped, clenched, and arched her way back to the shores of tenacity. It was a part of her the way petals emerged from a flower; the way wind whistled through the mountains, the way the auroras emblazoned across the horizon. She danced to no other tune but molten ferocity and whimsical feats – to deliverance, to liberation, to sonnets cast in love and affection, to stanzas lilted in tender reveries.
 
She waltzed once more, tore through the grounds with a willowy minuet, breathing soft croons and hymns, sanguine lips weaving assurance, not frailty, as they tipped into the boundaries of another. The fey sought him again because she wanted to, because another had reminded her to be bold, to be passionate, to love and thrive and not think twice about doing it, because she’d searched and searched and he’d finally come home and she believed in every ounce of her rhapsodized heart that he’d remind her of salvation.
 
It was like a silhouetted pattern, and she almost laughed about it, standing outside his cavern threshold on a spring morning, circlet and heart in hand. Imogen peered up at her as they finally ceased all movement, and Lena returned the favor, looking down with a delicate smile and a deep breath. A portion of her wondered if they shouldn’t disturb him again, if they should leave the little jewel and its memories on a bed of dirt, sand, and shells like before, let him awaken when the hour suited him to find her gift nestled along the earth. But Imogen scoffed, shook her head, pointed her long maw towards the darkened corridors and the shimmering beams of light floating across the boundaries, and the Mender followed it, wandering inwards with a quiet hush and a petal soft footfall.
 
The ivory vixen remained within the aperture while Lena tiptoed along his sleeping, crimson form, glancing elsewhere once or twice to avoid losing her bearings to objects that might’ve been scattered. She caught herself simply staring for a few mere moments, smitten with any rendering of his figure, trying not to laugh or chide herself as she roamed a bit closer, sneaky, defiant, a bit too much fey mixed in with florets and fondness. With a gentle, silent motion, she attempted to lower the crown tucked along her lips towards his head, tipping it just so along the pointed apex of his horn, so that when he woke, it might’ve fallen neatly into place, back where it belonged. Thereafter, she tried to slide away, but Imogen let out a loud chirrup and the Songbird had to clench her jaw and roll her eyes back towards the kitsune’s nearly innocent expression – and any sensation, any element, of surprise and wonder were effectively ruined.