The fledgling hours of dawn, hastened by shards of pink hues on the horizon, seemed to chase them in silly, courting whims, a finch’s brief tune, a meandering fish’s diffident splash; he wasn’t bothered by her answer, didn’t appear disturbed or distorted by the delicate secrets laced within. The Thief was well, still strong, still composed, still regal and magnificent, and she was still the dove, the swallow, the nightingale, fluttering at her errors and trying to hide them beneath her strains and arias. Her musical benevolence swept the turns and revolutions, uniting with the threatening, sultry balms, the stirrings of the sun’s power. “I’m happy to hear it.” She had half a rumination to joke with him, perhaps ponder if he’d been set upon fire recently, but quieted instead, enjoyed the tranquility without the frivolous banter. Like nothing had changed at all: no monsters, no melees, no munitions scorched and surged, and the notion itself was comforting, because there was no ill will, no ghastly piercing, no registered, mercurial divinations. If he thought her foolish, if he thought her selfish, if he thought her inept, he provided naught on the subject, allowing and bestowing the alms of her furtive credence to remain, to forgo the digging of horrors when the wounds had already closed. The air stirred and hummed, fond and content, and the sense of repose remained, acceptance kindled and provided all over again at his kindness, at his benevolence, as if the resolute pieces of fire could distort any calamity they’d previously incited. She breathed one wholesome sigh of relief, entrenched an edge of her lip in an almost impish delight, and began to sing.

At first, it was rhapsody and harmony, balanced between harpsichord raptures and elegant reveries, sliding amongst the ballads and merriments she knew best, gallivanting in refined interludes, chasing after the long lost stars, cascading along the mountain walls. Then, little by little, she altered the vocals, drove deeper inflections and intonations, caressed folds of chicanery and potency, and pierced slivers of power and persuasion. They sounded as strange as her first performance, ricocheting and colliding, corroding and dividing in a nearly sinister symphony, summoning, beckoning, tracing the foundations of embers and coals over the subtle, fine, delicate spread of water, hastening in flashes of absolute infernos. Curling from the summer air, commanded and wielded by their songstress, the potent blaze seared and scorched, snapped over the lake, puncturing and piercing the ebb and flow, the rise and fall of the slinking tide, casting seditious reflections in its wayward haze. As she sang, her eyes clung to the segments of blistering, sizzling, smoldering forces, tangible traces of what she’d sought (protection, I must protect my herd, my brethren, my family), stare burning just as vividly as the fire she possessed. With disquieting finality, because the essence of danger, of bedlams, of maelstroms, flared and flickered over her mind and the taste was molten, the anthem ended, segmented in one last, lingering coal, before it fell into the water, to the bottom of the lake, mutilated ash.

The fey was hesitant to look upon Roland’s features, scared of what she may see along his golden brow. Repugnance, distaste, contempt, antipathy? Would he loath the sight of those flames? Would he avert her presence, leave her with naught but beautiful memories and then battered, rancorous fringes? Would he think their journey had been ridiculous and ludicrous for paltry embers blistering, unwinding, and fanning into useless flames? Some portion of her knew the apprehension was foolish, because he’d seemed excited and curious, a scoundrel’s nature, had expected something of this magnitude, of this element, and another segment of her brave, stalwart entity knew she didn’t need his approval (but her heart would have liked it, cherished it, thought well of it when courting the branches and boughs of combustion). Her eyes wandered from enchanting pool to blue eyes, smiling albeit her touch of nerves, her scalding of consternation. “I haven’t practiced it much, and I don’t know its range…” The sylph’s words trailed off, brow furrowed, lost in sweeping, useless thoughts, before churning and chirping all over again, Imogen’s pride whispering in the back of her mind, awash and nuanced with bright thoughts and cherished sentiments, savoring the call of vehemence. “But I hope to use it for protecting the Basin.” The grin extended, but vocals proceeded no further, not daring to pry between nooks and crannies for the answers she desperately wanted. Do you like it? Is it all right? Do you think less of me? Should I never have sketched this path?

@[Roland]