Like a whirlwind, like a patchwork ending to a grand novel, she was back, returned to the sanctity and sanctuary of the beloved, beautiful Basin, misshapen and maligned, confused and befuddled, torn along the fringes. As if the entire charade had been meaningless, pointless, tied and tethered into paradise, into utopia, away from the action when all she’d wanted to do was help, she was thrown into where she belonged in an instant – an aimless venture, a strange endeavor. Perhaps her capture was far beyond her understanding of war and mayhem, because she hadn’t been tortured, she hadn’t been tattered, she hadn’t been torn, merely sunk into the passages of vines and ink, taken by a steed who couldn’t talk, who painted pictures for words, who laid flowers at her feet in regret and rue. The episode seemed utterly worthless (or was it because she had been – inferior and of little value?), splitting nightmares and shards in her eyes, in her dreams, in her thoughts, granting her naught but the notion of her weakness, of her frailty, of how even in her wildest imaginations of strength and endurance, the Songbird still couldn’t manage all-enduring might. The fairy had been snagged so easily, seized, bottled, plagued with herbs and secrets, with nothing to show for it: no information about the hidden regions, no noteworthy annotations, no horrors or abominations, just the age-old insecurities rearing their ugly heads and merciless grins back into her life. Like a fool, like an inept, graceless dunce, she’d proven her weakness, her frailty, her stupidity – the notion stung, hurt, and stoked a thousand more admittances she wouldn’t dare give name or speech to. Even as Imogen bristled, even as she told the Mender to raise her head and enjoy the sights, the sounds, of her glorious terrain, with its persevering tundra, with its everlasting, enduring threshold, she still couldn’t beat away the plague of melancholy wrapped around her delusions. It hurt to be an incompetent, blundering fool, especially when she had worked so hard to ensure she was important, she was strong, she was useful.

Her eyes drifted back and forth, to the incandescent horizon of summits, of peaks, of valleys, and to Ulrik, the engineer who’d managed to secure her back into the fold of their precious home. She warred with stumbling beneath the Sentinels and weeping with joy at the majestic deliverance of her sovereign, and proffering her gratitude towards the sullen, silent stag; who didn’t say anything of her stupidity, who followed Imogen into the folds of bright canopies and quiet guards, ready for battle, and receiving none. Appreciation and recognition won over in the end, and the little fey drew closer to him and his wolf, lavished her gratefulness with a singsong smile and an indebted heart. The melodies cast and uncurled were warm, incandescent, bubbling and brewing their mellifluous spirit, their persevering whirls and twirls, into the warbling grin, into the ferocious air. “Thank you bringing me home.” Then, abruptly, as if she knew he’d try to flee from touch, from bestowals as soon as they were granted, she inclined her nape over his in an amiable hug, clinging and clutching, allowing her sentiments to sink into his massive frame, before pulling away, presuming he’d prefer it chaste, unadorned, swift, and rapid. The Songbird’s smile stretched, wide and fair, beatific and magnificent, struggling to free itself from shackles and chains, before she too flew into the air, springing beneath the stiffened glance of the massive machines and dancing her way into rime, into folly, into gratitude all over again.

@[Ulrik] and open~