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02-06-2016, 04:51 PM
Her heart was a beautiful, enchanted thing, and she wore it everywhere. It was freeing, it was loving, it was inviting, and no matter how many times it’d been battered, bruised, or brutalized, it still maintained the vigilant, tender caress of warmth and delight. It was scarred and pierced, punctured and scorched, but remained eternally benevolent, everlastingly compassionate. Perhaps it had trouble seeing the wretchedness of others, the lacquer of havoc, the fiendish outcry of demons and infidels, or maybe it was just strong, beloved, unafraid and undaunted by the way empires marauded and kingdoms presided. While her mind was not as liberated, not as unchained, the affable embrace she shared with the rest of the realms was always clearly defined by the dulcet whims of her kindness, the sparks of her generosity, the captivation of her charity. She loved and loved and loved, even when the world didn't love her back. When the favor wasn’t returned, when she was scoffed at, ignored, spurned or rejected, the beatific rapture never strayed, never fell completely apart. She simply wouldn’t allow it. It was the only figment of her that always resounded, always burned – bright and brilliant, glittering and alluring, beguiling and bewitching. The Songbird’s eyes glanced over fine sinew and satin constellations, blinked at twilight and its sparkling, dazzling waves, gazed at galaxies and their fine, nimble luminescence, before etching her way towards the stare taking her in. One by one they must’ve sketched each other, puzzling, admiring, struggling to decipher the enigmas, the twists and turns, the beckoning nuances and the capricious whims in between. She could paint a canvas of glorious labyrinths sprinkled with starlight, and she’d guess his true essence was found along the darker contortions, then bounding over rims of sanctity, of heavens, of guiding, hopeful layers when he felt the need, when his mind had led him astray and his fervors had met an end. The nymph tilted her crown to study him better, to read along the columns of muscle and skin, to delve past all the lacquer buried amidst diamonds and sky; but she didn’t pry any further, not when she knew the weight of thorns and the hushed, immoral cry of iniquity. It wasn’t her place. Her maw slipped away from his shoulder, fascinated, lured, and drawn from where it’d touched stellar rays and moonlit pariahs, ears flicking, Imogen lurking, while he proclaimed a single query. Lena’s experiences were her own – she kept them nestled behind lock and key, along primrose paths and nettled valleys so when she relived them the pain was almost as certain, almost as conniving, as the first venture. He wouldn’t want to know of all the mistakes she’d made, all the tribulations she’d encountered, all the foolish, selfish actions she’d managed to conspire, then call to fruition. Some were trivial, some were brutal, some were bittersweet, and some were acidic, clawing, grasping, wretched, immoral things (burning across the Endless Blue, slashing at Gods, being taken from her home and absconded into the Hidden Falls). But she’d managed, through so many times and trials and deviances, to rise above the water, the waves, the tides threatening to drown her – because she was the Songbird, she was sylph, she was pixie, and she was determination wreathed in sonnets, stanzas, and symphonies. The only time she’d truly be conquered was when her breath stilled and her heart ceased to beat. But she wouldn’t play this game of sharing secrets. Lena easily set them aside, as if they were nothing, when they’d actually shaped her foundation, when they’d actually riddled and ensconced her in so much sin, in so much virtue. Her eyes met his again, and she was all mischief, all fey, all imp, smiling and bestowing naught but the twinkle of her gaze and the smile set across her lips. “Perhaps.” She didn’t want him to know how inept she’d been. She didn’t want anyone in the world to realize how stupid, how cruel, or how ineffectual she was. The pixie played her part, dazzling and serene, tranquil, beating her wings, clasped and concealed, walled against those who dared to look in. Fairy and light, ethereal and clear, tangible for only her frailest moments, Lena’s gaze remained and regarded his, bound for sagacity, for wisdom, giving and bestowing and granting all over again – more reality than pretense. “But the formidable don’t wallow in their melancholy for long. They triumph over sorrow. They prevail over desolation. They learn from their mistakes and try again.” The truth slipped past her tongue and along her lips and out into the cool, evening breeze, where the crooning echoed and spilled over her mind, over her thoughts. Was that what she was doing now – learning from her mistakes and trying again – or was she repeating the same, afraid to stare too deeply into the pile, the rubble, of her flaws errors? Her grin widened, never losing its brilliance, its incandescence, and the weight of her fine stare ensured he could conquer demons and fell foes. A symphony followed, unearthly, exquisite and refined, dipped in assurance, graced in gold and alacrity. “You look strong.” her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
@Atlas
