I think it’s wonderful.
 
Her smile was an instant kindling of pride and jubilance, as if the weight of his words were the sun and the moon, the heavens and the stars, the earth and the horizon. "Thank you," she pressed and glided, sang into the crisp, autumn vestiges. As the shield rested at her feet, crackling, sparkling, fizzling in its eerie persistence (glimmering, glowing, fervent and eager for a day when it would be of use, a beacon in front of her daring songs and pledged efforts), her eyes stared only at him – watching the slight alterations of his features, the residual satisfaction poised there (for her?, she wondered, and a light blush dusted her cheeks, silly, whimsical, but delighted all the same). She didn’t think of looking away.
 
But the guard’s worth played a part in his following words, in his turn, in his ambience, and her ears swiveled to catch the story, the evidence of Kaos, the funneling of madness and bedlam again. She hadn’t ventured down into the marsh and its catacombs, its tombs, its sepulcher, since the day of the monster’s revelation (when she’d pressed her songs and sanctums, hallelujahs and holy virtues into the fray and nothing mattered, nothing worked, nothing cured, and the silver warrior faded away, took her last breath, was carried off by her kin). A part of her didn’t want to think of what laid beyond those reckless, unrelenting vibes, the stoking, the kindling, of power, of terror, of treachery – she’d seen and lived it so many times before. Her days had been stretched into gathering herbs and whistling tunes, gallivanting across the horizon, forcing herself to work, to provide, to duty, to forbearance, so her thoughts wouldn’t be sketched off into what violent act would come next, what stage would come into play, what masquerade would be unveiled and send them to slaughter. The Songbird had always made her bids for peace, had delved into the fray to save; had rallied into danger for others without a moment’s hesitation – and the shield resting against her hooves suddenly felt heavier, cumbersome, a weight of a thousand wars pulsing in the midst of fury and might (she’d use it, he knew, he understood, he comprehended the measure of her tenacity; she’d push it right in front of countless spirits, protect them, guide them, try and stop the torture escalating over their forces). Her smile faded with his, became a thin line of contemplation, stare casting out over shoals and shore, over pockets of snow appearing along the mountains, upon the Sentinels still standing towards the borders. “We’ll just have to keep vigilant,” she said thereafter, trying to cast the worries, the consternation, and the trepidation aside, the grin attempting to come back, crinkling along the edges of her mouth.
 
But then he teased, rallied her away from the horrifying fringes, and she laughed again, leaned into his touch, felt the soft petals glide against her skin, reaching for his throat and pushing her giggles, her breath, into its curved sanction. “That’s not fair!,” she giggled once more, because it was so like him to make it all into a ruse, into a game, into some charade to tear her from the beckoning onslaughts; twist and turn and play so she didn’t see the shadows hovering over there palace. “I have nothing else to trade,” she frowned a little, ensconced herself right into the folds of their diversion, then batted her eyelashes, pretending her mere existence would be enough to foist such valid information out of him (and in the back of her mind, blurred and fragile, rapid and irreverent, she wondered if there would be another time).