Remorse rasped and stung its way over her jaw, down her throat, intertwining and blending its way through her chest until it slammed against her heart in a vicious, sadistic pulse. It rested and remained there, vile and ruthless, pervading and surrounding, as the Thief’s notions spilled over the wayward chill (he hadn’t gone, he’d waited – and all those unsaid words glimpsed to the surface) – because she’d been snagged, because she’d been taken, because she’d been too weak, too stupid, too infirm to do anything but crash to the ground and dragged into enemy confines. No arts, no wiles, no foundation but ineptitude had caused a blurring of errors, with poor Ulrik charging and beckoning for her freedom, with patient, composed Roland standing amidst the throng, lingering and loitering, not wandering where he truly wished to go. She closed her eyes, ignored all the sharp edges, all the keen blades, crisscrossing over the images behind her memories; but wishing, hoping, and praying couldn’t bring back time, couldn’t twist away the hours, couldn’t pull out knots. She couldn’t mend her way out of this hollowed out hell, she couldn’t assuage or soothe or sing horrors off into another world – all that mattered now was what would come after. How would she prevail? How would she change? How would she alter herself so she was no longer this miserable cretin, sinking instead of swimming, drowning instead of gliding, falling instead of rising? The urge to apologize to him, great, grand Roland with his charismatic ease and stalwart, steadfast, kind presence, was overwhelming, pressing down between her shoulders and erupting over her skin, feral and wild. How many times had she executed the same notions, the same sentiments (and when did they grow stale, no longer counted, no longer fastened to the slate of regrets and rue)? Was he tired of listening to them? She pressed her cheek against his pelt and felt all the somber, frail melancholies lace and stitch their way into her seams, and she choked upon their grinding, fractious force, beaten, worn, restless, forsaken and abandoned; exhausted in between perils and mutinies of her mind, of the world, of all the flaws she’d managed to tangle in a matter of moments. The nymph nearly yearned to bury and hide in his entity, in his presence, in his constancy, so when she emerged again she’d be whole, she’d be new, she’d be fresh, vigilant, strong, all over again. The repentance shimmied across her tongue, bobbed and swayed, twirled and waltzed, a harsh, siren cry of self-reproach, and she opened her eyes, loosened her mouth, prepared for the endless tirade of compunction –

When he’d continued, stared at her, fixed her with constancy, with certainty, with all the notions and sentiments she couldn’t hold onto. His request played over her mind like a sonnet, composed and written and strummed across as a brilliant, blinding symphony, because he always found some form to guide her along. Deep in the caverns, when there’d been no light but the sprinkling of eerie lanterns, he’d escorted her to freedom, when they’d played across meadows and divulged disappearances, he’d granted her hope, and when he followed her into the fire, into the flames, he’d supported her selfish, thoughtless tidings, watched her become enshrouded in phoenix ashes. Now, he proffered her an opportunity to return the favor, to be something other than miserable, leap from the stumbling, fumbling stroll she’d been taking. Her eyes widened, her jaw slackened, her soul threatened to break apart in raptures and reveries. The Songbird’s lips even cracked and bloomed into the simplest of smiles, dipping even closer so manes, so tassels, so charms and beads and trinkets blended together seamlessly, black and gold.

I don’t deserve you, her heart warbled. “Of course I will,” her voice chirped. No hesitation, no doubt, no irresolution, she surrendered herself over to the task, over to the foils, over to the crumbling wake, striving to see the sun past the horizon. Already there, Imogen crooned, and Lena laughed inwardly, suddenly blinded all over again by his generosity, by his benevolence.

@[Roland]