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02-09-2017, 06:22 PM
She waited for the resolution, for the announcement, for plagues or phantoms to come bursting out of the confines, eyes poised, careful, watching, uncertain of Imogen’s delight, of the whisper serenading from the fairy’s lips. But as her hand, as her fingers, cold, unrelenting, like the mountains she roamed, like the summits she climbed, like the chilling, hallowed world she served, touched upon her horn, she felt strangely at ease, at peace, in repose. The Songbird couldn’t ascertain the serenity, the tangible tranquility blossomed and bloomed from the eaves of the unknown, but it washed through her just the same, releasing the breath she’d been holding, dancing across the threshold of her heart. Nothing to fear, Imogen assured her, right all along, silly chirps and enigmatic grins following in the kitsune’s wake. Perhaps it was the mischief, the delight, swirling within the fey’s eyes (something Lena would’ve sparked, would’ve incensed, long ago, before wars and persecutions, before worlds turned and burned), drawing her into relief and composure. Maybe it was the wide grin the Mender returned, urged, enticed, tempted to revere the reason why she’d have need of the winged belle. “Do I?” She whispered, head tilted, curious, not understanding the full depths of anything she required – her needs had always been met by the gracious acts of those around her, of proffering them with the best care, with offering her mending, assuaging services, with ensuring they were well, they were whole, ready to forge on for another day. “I can’t think of anything I require…” she posed, a melody invoked by the unknown. She loved and cherished, she aided and protected – was there something else she couldn’t see, couldn’t fathom, couldn’t touch? No unearthly cravings seared through her soul, along her veins, avaricious and mercenary – no warren, labyrinthine melancholy stirring in her chest. The interest remained, however, because she wanted to know if there was an element to her path that she’d yet to discover. her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
