and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The soft chill of autumn tugged, grasped, and whittled her away from the confines of their cavern at dawn, trapped her in a relishing melody, in a dulcet footfall of grace, poise, and then sweeping indulgence – caught between an elusive dance and silly mayhem. Imogen was the first to be snatched and snagged by the enticing wind, the easygoing, permeating chill, chirping at the fresh frost layered upon morning dew, racing against imaginary onslaughts, laughing and chirruping into the mercurial gales. The Songbird followed thereafter, until they were mere whispers on Orangemoon’s edges, the rise and the fall of gold, of crimson, of vibrant, beautiful, breathtaking pigments, the illustrious fringes of all the mesmerizing hues, until winter coated them in naught but white. But they matched well, blending into the courtyard of colors, drawn into the earthen element with sienna sinew and ivory sheen, giggling with fresh merriment because the world could still be good, could still be wonderful, could still be something more than chaos and imbalance – sometimes the resonance was keen, was rapture, was resplendence in the simply, archaic adventure of journeying into the midst of a first blush, the pinnacle of light, of sound, of stars and auroras. There was no rush, no zealous purpose, but simple joviality, delight, springing down into their limbs and out through their movements, moments firm, unyielding, granted and given to seraphs and their kin; and she gave voice to it through diligent hymns and graceful arias, flickering and flitting amidst the forest with the swallows and sparrows, with the hawks and the eagles, with the careful ambience of an unearthly sage.
 
This too, eventually, became more of an expedition than mere roaming – she plucked at a few herbs still left beneath shade and shadows of towering oaks and undaunted pine, wrapped their tiny leaves and fragile stems between her lips, broke a few sonnets and stanzas to gaze at strong, durable, remarkable babes of the grass. She praised them, lowered her lips to their unbending petals and noted their diligence, their perseverance, how they were true Basin inhabitants, marked for glory and endurance, fortitude and might, through hushed whispers of absolute reverence - and how they too would honor another citizen of the realm with their poise and dignity. Then the wind plotted their course, and the pair returned towards the greenhouse with their tender, gallant wares.
 
They must have spent a better part of the morning there, tending to the little plants, cleaning out fallen leaves, shifting one herb to another spot, and eyeing Mortuus Nox’s latest cultivations. Preparations were a necessity for the coming season, especially in the mountains, where the summits and clouds occasionally showed their citizens the depths of their power with storms and onslaughts, and the Mender paid this great heed as she shuffled along the dirt floor, gathering bits and pieces of blossoms. Imogen assisted for a lengthy while, before growing distracted with movement and motion from outside the glass halls.
 
A grand foxy grin emblazoned and embedded itself right across her vulpine features as she saw who was making their way towards the hothouse, and she swung her head towards Lena as she continued her careful ministrations, plucking away at some deadened plant life. The vixen thought about calling out to her, chirping that company was coming, that her favored Phantom was wandering into their midst, but the mischievous side of her sweet, valorous entity quickly abolished the notion – besides, it looked like he was trying to surprise. Who was she to ruin his calculations?
 
So she only chirruped when it was far too late and the crimson, gilded stag was already beneath the cloth aperture, lavender tucked between his mouth – and she held her laughter back (just barely), when the Songbird abruptly shot her head up from the soil, twisting an ear back, mane and forelock entangled with various leaves.
 
Lena looked less seraphic and more like a woodland sprite, straight from the forest, entrapped and measured by some glade nymph, one leaf stuck directly between her ears, and didn’t think to shake her head and release them from her tassels. Instead, she remained caught in between the unknown and the rush, the fondness, the intimacy of the stallion’s appearance, and settled for a soft, radiant blush and a beatific smile. “Roland! Come in, come in!” She quipped with singsong hallelujahs, turning away from the greenery, from the flowers, to grant him her full attention – entranced and beguiled all over again.
 
The femme stared at him for a little while, eternally enamored, before processing what she was supposed to be doing or saying; narrowing it down to either an emboldened motion or the strange, strangled sensation of what things used to be. They were far past the how are you stage, when she’d just tiptoe and dance on the surface and he’d do the same, and they’d sidle along until someone dared to press a little further. She’d dared, very much so, the last time they’d been alone, and the notion made her laugh, giggle, simply because she was so uncertain, so silly, over lines she’d crossed long before. After her momentary apprehension, she dove back into the unknown, pressing into the earth and waltzing towards him, placing her lips against his cheek in a fond greeting, in a fanciful salutation, before her eyes focused on the parcel of purple enfolded along his teeth. Curiosity sang a sweet tune, flickered along her gaze as the honeyed remnants riveted back to him. “What have you been up to?”

the songbird