.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
She was there among the herbs and flowers, tending to their stock with all the focus and artistry of an expert, Imogen close by her side. They were alone, as far as the Phantom could tell, and it looked as if all would unfold just as he had hoped. He had chosen his steps carefully as he’d made his entrance, determined not to announced his presence before he was ready, and she had yet to notice him, captivated as she was by her endeavors, consumed in the silence and tranquility of an early morning. Roland couldn’t hide the smile from his face as he watched her maneuver about, tending to the small plants that peeked up from the soil, for which he himself could not put a name to. To see her in her element, to witness another fragment of her work, to observe her efforts and know her skill, her finesse just from the tenderness and proficiency of her ministrations, was inspiring. Bits of leaf and herb, contributions of her craft, protruded waywardly from her hair, so caught up as she was in her task, and it was so very endearing. He would have been content to watch her for a moment or two longer, if Imogen had not drawn his gaze with a boisterous chirp. The Phantom cast a wink of acknowledgement in the kitsune’s direction, flower still held firmly between his lips. The smile on his face quickly blossomed into a grin as the Songbird looked up, drawn out of her reverie with a look of utter surprise. She ushered him in with a radiant greeting that only stoked the growing warmth in his chest, and he bowed a greeting to her, lips sealed around his gift. The air slid warm and sluggish over his skin as he picked his through the plants cautiously, careful not to bump anything out of place, or trod on something precious. Lena closed the distance between them, looking truly at home and in her element as she moved among the plants. There was something about the greenhouse that felt peaceful, safe, a sanctuary apart from chaos and turmoil. There was a militant atmosphere to the secret tent, an air of tension and confidentiality; this was a place of healing, of solace, and it instantly set him at ease as the Mender drew up before him. She was beautiful, sunlight filtering through the cloth walls around them to settle in muted highlights across her graceful features. He resisted the urge to pluck the leaves from her hair, to tidy and tame the unruliness of her mane, for there was an energy, a sense of liberation about her that he wanted to savor. As she pressed a kiss against his cheek he leaned eagerly into her touch, drinking in her presence. There was a softness in her eyes that he liked to think was reserved only for him. He brushed a wordless greeting of his own against the curve of her cheek, and then leaned in to tuck and thread the lavender’s stem through the curled locks of her mane. When he was satisfied it would hold, he retreated to admire his handiwork. It was a modest flower, small purple buds clinging to a lengthy stem, nothing at all ostentatious about its nature; it suited her, a shock of colour against her dark hair, and Roland felt a moment’s wistfulness at the thought that it would not last forever. Her voice was soft, curious, as he withdrew, but he merely dodged the question with a chuckle. “A Phantom must never spill his secrets,” he replied slyly. A morning spent wandering the mountains and glens was worth it, for her. He nodded to the flower then, a wily grin on his lips. “It’s a nice addition to your other… accessories,” he joked warmly, eyeing the leaves that had become tangled in her silky mane. @Lena |
