The seraph hadn’t meant to unfurl ghosts of the past: the gnarled fingers of guilt, the forceful, puissant distance of disappearances and voids. Her intentions had been dipped in meaning, not transgression, and she wished she could’ve painted a different picture then – maybe one of merry dances in underground chambers enlightened in shades of beautiful greens and blues, laughing beside waterfalls, intertwining their way through glowing lantern lights and tangible jewels, or embarking across meadows, waltzing amongst thistles and lavender, hiding within shorelines. She didn’t want the noxious blade to be there, resting between them, as alive as the day she’d been left behind, in mirrors, enraged, desperate, shaken, embittered, as whole as the day he’d wandered off, sunken into the hollowed hills like so many before him. They had to maneuver around it, somehow, someway, or it’d be a constant blight in their sides, a greater laceration than any she’d had to stitch and sew on a wounded soldier. This wasn’t how they were to spend their lives, whittling away at old lesions, slashes, and tears, until one or the other broke apart again – she was still whole, real, tangible, firmly within his sights, healed from the restless bounties that had once scorched her heart. She knew what she wanted, what she cherished (him - the phantom draped and garbed in gold and red, with a gaze like the sea), what coiled along her pursuits and possessions. Hadn’t she already forgiven him? Hadn’t they already spent the echoes of agony, rendered them across snow and canopies, thrown away the sinuous torture? The Songbird watched as his eyes were segmented to the floor, its needlework of crisp, curled leaves and particles of dust, immediately wishing she could push it all aside, sweep away the cobwebs and the listlessness, the languid hold nestled between beasts, bones, and marrow. Then his stare seemed to be drawn completely to her, and she saw the anguish, the contentment, all riddled there like a puzzle piece, stretched out before her without pretenses or a mask; no masquerades, no foils, no veils. “Haven’t I at least taught you to hope?” Her brow arched again, still a fey, still a fairy, still striving to get closer and closer, lips settling beneath his horn in a dulcet caress, then small laughter, a warm giggle, a resounding declaration of absolution once more – clemency and mercy and love wrapped in the softest of movements and motions.
 
Lena’s cheek turned towards his mouth as it grazed along her figure, like a brush, like a stroke, sketched and outlined by a master painter; eyelashes fluttering closed, smile blossoming and blooming, christened and anointed by beatific designs and flourishes, the touches of grandeur and devotion. “You should,” she murmured distractedly, paying close attention to the warmth of his skin, dipping her head so her lips could find and follow the lines and curves of his jaw, billowing her breath across his hide. Sweet nothings and everythings pulsed along her mouth in whispers, in murmurs, in valorous convictions and refinements, an ethereal balance of wholesome, lissome grace, muse and elegance, forgetting where she’d started and returning again (he’d said something about Raeden, she was certain), doing the same along his chest, to his long neck, underneath the tassels of sunlight and crimson, granting blessings, salvations, and deliverances along the essence of her kisses. When he granted her thank you and caressed her jaw, she shuddered, trembled, skin scorching, on fire, melting into his stroke, into his feel, brazen and bolder still, more merry giggles pervading from her frame. “You’re welcome,” the Songbird obliged again, pressing the words into his flesh, into his shoulder, remembering teaching him to dance, and wondering if he recalled the steps.