and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The Songbird likely could have stayed right there for an eternity, tucked between his chest and mouth, radiant, warm, home - casting everything aside and settling for everlasting devotion. She blinked and he was still there, no dream, no mirage, no ghost, and she lifted her cheek, like a bowstring, loosened and pliant, as he bent and curved along her skin, giggling, hovering in a state of grace and silliness. Like satin, like fairy wings, like gossamer tendrils, the notions, the sentiments, the blessings scattered along the sweetened denizens, and she almost forgot they were contained within glass walls, sliding her eyes closed, enjoying the attention as he tucked the lavender blossoms along her curls, a softened sigh escaping her lips, then gracefully extending them to his throat, listening to him chuckle, to his laugh. It was a mesmerizing sort of thing too, drew her back in before she’d even think of escaping, the sort of sound that had followed her through valleys and over hillsides, that had waltzed beside her on moonlit evenings, that had dazzled and spellbound and eclipsed over her mind; a soothing, fluid balm, a kiss without touch. She opened her eyes to find him laughing at her though, all play fair in love and war, pressing his phantom rights into the declaration, sly, rarely forthright, not dipping into her curious, inquisitive onslaughts. The little nymph pretended then too, mockingly furrowed her brows and looked away, past the reflecting glass and wool veneer, trying not to forge another round of laughter, at ease, calm, composed, serenading the venue with her affection and endearments. “What a shame. I guess I won’t share what I’ve been doing either,” she sighed, she shrugged, she snorted, as if it was simply not to be, held a whimsical, mercurial pretense they all knew and recognized as impishly forced, turning her gaze to Imogen with a mischievous glow, setting her sights subtly on the newly established collar layered around the kitsune’s neck.
 
“Thank you,” she proffered instead, indicating the flower and its lacquered petals, its soft, dulcet scent, its calming exterior – and almost asked where he’d gotten it, where he’d found it amongst the dying fronds and exhale of autumn. She didn’t quite understand his next statement though, and her confusion seemed to mark a fair share of giggles from Imogen’s corner. Was he referencing the Spark God’s feather, still sizzling, still sparking, still energized, wrapped in the loosened tendrils, further down her nape? Her head tilted, and she could hear the sound of some crinkling, distinct, like that of dried, forgotten leaves, when one stepped upon the forest floor around this time of year, but didn’t quite fathom the nature, the silliness, the great, grand, jocular moment. Imogen continued giggling in her wild chirps, the laughter becoming a fanciful uproar, and Lena stood there, very perplexed, and growing all the more concerned, stature suddenly rigid, taut, straight as an arrow. What on earth? She inquired to the ivory kitsune, but the little vixen had completely lost it by then, and the only sense the Mender could find in the moment was to merely compliment him on his gift, turning in refinement, in grace, in all the poise one could muster when they were adorned with crinkling fronds and curling leaf-blades. “I’m sure it overshadows them,” she mustered with a potent, reverent smile, still ridiculously baffled.

the songbird