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02-13-2016, 06:14 PM
She’d done it again – easily, swiftly, keenly, carefully crafted walls and fortifications, ramparts and munitions, castles and blockades. Her constructions were always beautiful measures of secrets and enigmas, furtive veils, specious screens, a soulful smile, an extension of warmth, a dance, a twirl, a sway of compassion and diligence, gentle charades and singsong serenades. They hid away all of her foolish notions, her whimsical airs, her dastardly, ineffectual actions, and the lines of stupidity all sketched so obviously behind her gates. Behind her barriers, she was all worthlessness and ineptitude, all treachery and weakness, vile, nettled, and thorned, longing for purpose, for absolution, and struggling to stay afloat. Try as they might, she’d never truly let anyone in; her grins were sometimes tangible nothings, sometimes pretenses to keep everyone at bay, sometimes confirmation of hope and buoyancy when her heart was weighed down by tragedy and loss. She guarded, she protected, she shielded herself from disappointments and disillusions – watched as many disappeared, as many died, as motives and pursuits slowly fell apart. The Songbird never pried for fear they would do the same to her – never asked about those clandestine sonnets traced along someone’s brow, never inquired about why they’d left or what they craved or what they sought out in the brave, unsettled world. She was always afraid someone would conduct the same interview, and her hidden wares and wars would suddenly embark on their own flight, no longer tied, no longer tethered. She was not innocent, and she was not vile, but lord, she was somewhere in between (weak one day, strong and stalwart the next, never falling apart in front of another in case they’d seen all the fragility in her horrid ruin). Even Roland, who had seen her at her worst, who had watched her crawl into selfish oblivion, into wants and desires, hadn’t known everything about her quiet, unsung laurels, her presence within invasions, her ascension into violence and torment, and the erosion of her mercurial soul. Her masks were perfected, her seals were enchanted, and some, like the past Thief, like companions nestled in the snow, simply didn’t try to pull the threads apart. They had their own concoctions, their own measures, their own schemes and ruses; the icy shackles were a welcome respite to the legions of truth-tellers and speculators. So when she spread her love around, when she showed the earth her deep, diligent devotion to the mountains, to the peaks, to the valleys, to her allies and compatriots and every other essence she’d come across, it was never fully returned. Because she wasn’t open, because she wasn’t revealed and vulnerable and bare, neither was anyone or anything else. That was the way it remained, chiseled and firm, sculpted and defined. But Atlas was playing on her cryptic snares, touching on the wires, poking and prodding, almost absentmindedly, as if testing their strength and might. Her eyes carefully watched his movements and motions, waiting for a striking scythe or a battering ram harpooned her way, a ladder dropped over her intricate labyrinth. But all she received was a warm smile, a gaze towards the reflecting puddles, a cool, autumn breeze and a heart pounding (hers, drumming and treacherous). Then a smattering of compliments she likely didn’t deserve; her mind rebutted them, but her body retained its firm polish, forgoing the blush blossoming and springing over her cheeks. She’d meant to extend her acclaims and commendations towards him and his endurance, his trials and triumph over them, the fortitude and ability to overcome more, and Lena shook her head in fey disagreement, laughing all the while. Her eyes cast back to his, sparking and igniting over the wiles and lines of his starry complexion, struck by the beguiling lures, by the thought of releasing some parts of herself to someone (and what would they think, when they saw who she truly was? What she’d come from and what she’d become?), by the alluring nature of galaxies and heavens. The Mender would never be a fascinating revelation, would never be a dazzling specimen of achievement; but maybe, perhaps, she could be a guide, a sage of perseverance. Is that what he wanted in life? To pursue, to dream, to catch what he hadn’t clasped before? And if she asked, if she pried just a little, would he do the same to her, and she’d be back into the miserable old fold? Or could she give one aspect of herself to someone else (she thought she had before – was fairly certain her heart had been taken and left with a golden vessel and blue eyes, but it kept thudding in her chest, warm and unrestrained)? Her lips pressed together, uncertain, debating, and she could’ve sworn Imogen arched a foxy brow and chirped in accordance. She molded a careful, radiant breath, polished in melody, in effervescence, in heartfelt ambiguity, enveloping her words in a beautiful, illuminated smile. “What do you intend to do with your second chance?” her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
@Atlas
