Beautiful quote goes right here!
Lena is just love boop boop

Innocent duplicity circled over her head, bounded, leaped, chased, and cavorted with the wily fox and her gilded phantom – and she was all arched brows, speculation, a fairy without her own tricks and deceptions. It inspired laughter, a pervading, silly tone circulating, echoing, lingering (Imogen’s too, a crescendo of merriment and delight) through the glass walls, skirting and polishing the hothouse flowers, the accompanying herbs, and she was still unaware of the joke. The nymph didn’t flare apart in frustration though, presumed everything would be revealed in time, and she wouldn’t be such a large, massive fool – though for a few moments she thought about pleading with Imogen so she might be in on the fanciful airs, but as her eyes swept back over to Roland’s, and his low chuckle curled through her chest, she supposed it didn’t matter. She could listen to the deep tones of his amusement for days on end, smiled at the notion of it, light and carefree, and only lightly blushed when he came to her rescue (a dotting of pink on her cheeks, dulcet, soft, a glimmer of adoration). A few leaves were liberated from her tassels, where they’d been stuck and knotted, gnarled and twisted, from her hours spent amidst floral arrangements and tidying – she stared at them as he set their lithe, little souls free, spinning and twirling, decaying on their fringes, until they came to rest along the dirt floor. “Not my best, I’m afraid,” and she laughed too, allowed the joviality to soak up the remains of her sprite adornments, glancing at their dying wares while he complimented her – and she thought about giggling those away too (because she knew she was a bit plain, a speckle of honey and sienna in an empire full of glowing hues and vibrant colors, meant for earth elements instead of fire and brimstone). She could’ve even offered a compliment to his own looks – handsome and roguish, a feast for her eyes, but she was sure he was aware of his own complimentary features (the twinkle of his blue stare, the nearly-smug grin, the gilded muscles, a lean, elegant form), and bit her tongue from giving it voice. The Songbird could keep some things to herself – for now.
 
The Mender carried on with another wave of giggles again at her prior thoughts, lifting her lips to caress his maw with a light stroke, a tender kiss, listening, enjoying the way his voice curled along her ears. Her grin grew even wider when she’d struck some form of gold, because he offered a trade, and it was far more than she’d ever received before. They’d been compatriots of secrets and deceptions for a long time now – it was much more familiar for her to shelter her feelings, her notions, her thoughts, her sentiments; she held a preference for specious discoveries and enigmatic twists. Roland was much of the same, she surmounted and perceived, alike in the way he conducted himself, kept the world private, unexposed. Perhaps the only time she could ever recall imparting any of her convictions and confidences was when he’d reappeared – because she’d been afraid he’d drift away again, and she never would’ve been able to reveal on what had rested, built, and crooned in her essence for so long now. This moment was not so nearly fraught with peril, heartache, or trivialities, but she took the time to appreciate it for what it was worth – an instance where they could both be a little more open, a little less fragmented. “It must be a fair trade,” the Mender conceded, winking, glancing to Imogen (who’d since muffled her chirps, amusement still readily apparent across that cunning, foxy grin), and sauntering past (sliding a delicate, airy touch along his spine with her lips), ducking beneath the fine, woven cloth of the greenhouse aperture. “Mine will be best displayed outside,” was the only hint granted, the silly depths of her smile crinkling to an infinite, impish quality before she was taken back out into the autumn depths.

the songbird