With his safety secured, relief cascaded over her features, rippled and chimed, the sweet melody of carillon tunes and rapturous chords, glowing, resplendent. A portion of her mind drowned out the cacophony of destruction and ruinous aftermath, trying to block and assail the pathways of horror stretching and clawing up her throat and down her spine, webbed and barbed like the new scars and marks punctured over her flesh. She caved into the immense consolation and solace in Roland’s sanctum, breathing softly, slowly, watching the air dissipate and collide with his forelock, gently swirling with the sea mist and spring foam. It was so much easier to see him, gracious and whole, then descend back again into the bewitching tendrils of condemnation and barbarity. The nymph preferred to be allured and beguiled by his presence, by his sanctuary, than punctured and lanced time and time again. With little hesitation, she leaned into his touch, fighting back against shards and forlorn throes, embracing the tangible sonnets of his voice and the gilded wonder at his mere presence. She clung to it, to him, to his warmth, a desperate caress of the fallen and the dismayed, assuaged and mended for thorny remnants of instances. The gravity of prior situation haunted the back of her eyes and the plumes of her mind, because she could have lost him to the perils of smoke and flame, to the whims of the monstrous and heartless, and never would’ve lived with herself if he’d perished in the midst of embers and coals. The curled, coiled sylph nearly apologized, but swallowed the foul taste when she realized that was all she ever seemed to do in his wake (but lord, she was sorry for all the ineptitudes she displayed and all the stupidity she possessed, and somehow she’d make it up to him) – and all the promises she’d assured and proffered to the Thief still hadn’t come true. Her voice, raw and fleeting, stole over the granules of sea and wind, grateful for his wellness. “I’m so glad.” Still selfish, as though she’d learned naught from the horrific experience, she couldn’t draw herself away from him, relished the fervor, the ardor, the pulse of his magnificent heart as she fluttered her head over his nape. Like butterfly wings and daffodil kisses, she carved more and more convictions past her lips in silent reveries and raptures, croons and arias, pressing them against his neck and sculpting their path as though they could be true oeuvres and masterpieces. She asked for so much and gave nothing in return. Perhaps that made her just as despicable as the demon that sought, created, and distorted their pyre.

Lena swindled her cranium away, back and lost to the melancholy of her faults. She raised her ramparts and fortifications, melded and molded over the self-absorbed dissension lining her core, struggling over how to respond to his query. In truth, she was too tired, too fatigued, too mired, to invoke any other enchantments; her body had varnished and lacquered as much as it could – recovery could be a prolonged affair. Her scars would be a rancorous reminder of defiance and its many transgressions. The Songbird’s teeth and tongue clenched down over a lie bubbling and floating to the roof of her mouth (I’m fine; you needn’t worry about me), because he didn’t deserve another molten march of deception and fabrications. Instead, she struggled to maneuver her forelegs beneath her, set herself upright, join standing legions and crusading cavalcades, itching for a chance to break into the water, to set the scalding flames to rest. The motions were akin to a wobbly newborn, quivering and fumbling, but where a youth’s was due to inexperience, the nightingale’s was out of drained portions and listless, haggard moments: a well run dry. Almost sheepishly, the Songbird’s gaze danced over to his, summoning one more request, failing in her efforts to not beg him for anything more (when would it end?). “Could you help me get to the sea?”

@[Roland]
- For Sun God quest. ^_^]