The last vestiges of Orangemoon curled beneath freshly fallen snow, withered, decrepit, and decayed, forgotten about while they fed and nourished the soil for an augured Birdsong.  She uncovered some now, deep between branches and boughs, layered under the first few inches of the fine powder, smiling, understanding what it was like to be ignored or disregarded, comprehending the nature of overlooked beasts and neglected shadows. How many times had they all wandered past someone they once cared for, once beloved, not noting the changes? Not realizing the alterations? Or how many instances were trapped and snagged in disappearances, the wiles and whims of another emboldening on a chase towards the horizon, no end in sight, no story told, no excuses made? How many hours had passed since they were simply left behind?
 
Seasons, the Mender told herself, and Imogen pressed a flat line along her fox mouth, not bothering to say a word.
 
They wandered down into the midst of the Fields, pursuing naught but a tiny piece of heaven and a woven thread of deliverance. They clutched a few stray herbs here and there, attempting to rescue and offer sanctum to the flora before winter truly arrived, poking at the cold, frozen earth with grace and dignity. The pair tried to forgo the lasting embrace of a brigand gone to other regions, of smiles taken and then thrown aside, of charms and freedoms and things that should’ve lasted suddenly flickering and falling apart.
 
Maybe it was another test of strength – the ability to overcome a broken heart.
 
She’d been given so many trials, tribulations, and appraisals; and she’d thought, once, while dancing in shimmering caves or basking in a warm, tender glow, wings unclipped and grin soaring, that she wouldn’t be given such an exam, because she’d passed so many others, she’d struggled and tried and swam against the current. Sometimes needlessly, something to support others, sometimes to simply showcase what she could do, how she could grow, how she wasn’t a stranger to adversity, how she wasn’t fragile but strong and enduring…
 
Lena picked one more strand of a plant managing to outlast the cold, shaking her head in solidarity, when Imogen became wholly distracted. Her kitsune ears pricked, her attention stole over the fronds and fields, staring into a nearby woodline, chirping, hesitant and unsure. Something there, she proffered through their connection, and the sweet, gentle Songbird, not intending to bother anyone else on this chilly morning, prospered only an arch of her brow. Leave them at peace. If another had found their sanctuary, their haven, she was not about to interrupt, and chase them from their refuge. 

  A mystery spun and surrounded them, delving deeper and deeper into enigmatic quandaries and developments as a blaze of light emboldened a line of copse and glades. Both creatures stood stock still, ceasing all manner of movement to simply gaze about in wonder, speculation, and curiosity – etching and sketching constant deliberation layer by layer, lacquer by lacquer, until they were mere shrouds of absolute attention. They were a matched pair of absolution, defiance, and beguilement, twisting their bodies towards the serenading, wild, untamed beacon, towards the fading mists and the delicate, disrupted sanctum. As if they danced along a precipice, neither spoke, neither maneuvered, neither inclined anything at all; only allowing their eyes to linger, their souls to connect, their breaths to mingle, as another was drawn into the hazy, heavenly effervescence.
 
A deer, a stag, a guardian of the woods embodied by spirit and design, by violet and darkness, by gilded, lantern lights and holiness nestled amongst broad shoulders and striking features ventured out into the field – and for one glorious second, moment, instance, a sharp notion of recognition fluttered within the Songbird’s mind. It fluttered and glided, murmured and christened, anointed something old, something new, something kindled and ruffled in a state of familiarity that she couldn’t quite place or pinpoint. It rested on the edge of her mind, away from transparency and tangibility, a ghost, a wraith, a phantom from beyond. The fey loosened her breath, felt her chest shudder and ripple, and thought the sentiments destroyed as the beast started to move again (had they disrupted him somehow, this king of the forest?). She nearly apologized, nearly brandished and craved forgiveness, but he resounded, called, bugled, in a state of invitation and temptation, then turned from whence he came, leaving them as quickly as he’d come.
 
The Mender thought it could’ve been a dream, a hallucination, a mirage brought on by melancholy and deceit, but one look at Imogen’s taut, rigid, refined form, her ivory hairs on edge, her mind chaotic and wild with the possibility of a chase, and Lena knew the tense moment had been real, tangible.. But what were they to do about it?
 
If they followed, if they were enticed by the woodland creature, could they be led into damnation? Was there a trap waiting along the winding road, lingering, hoping, craving a foolish cretin to fall into its depths? And if they didn’t meander along in its wake, would they be spurning some mythical beast, some fallen god, some regal, royal deity? Was it all a serendipitous notion? Was it all a grand, arching scheme?
 
Was she supposed to play the fool?
 
Imogen was the first to fall victim to the ploy, lingering on the edge of the meadow, prancing on the fringes of something untamed, something ferocious, something unsettled. So when Lena acquiesced, when she allowed one petalsoft footfall to glide against moss and leaves, the pale fox raced ahead, counting the ways to ruin. All the while, the Songbird hoped and prayed that there was absolution, and not damnation, on the other side.

  They followed him down the rabbit hole. A notion, strung and stung, nestled within her mind like a barb, like a thorn, curling and coiling in treacherous diversions – because what if they were being led to another ambush? What if they were destined to be the Pied Piper’s children, enchanted, beguiled, and allured, then gone, vanished, and taken? What if they were to be snagged and snarled, tethered and chained, never to be seen again? Or was she being foolish, ridiculous, having witnessed and seen too much of the barbarity, of the sinister incantations, of the ruffian endeavors searing across the earth?
 
And still she followed the fox and the deer, torn by curiosity and fear. Would a spirit of the forest truly drag them to oblivion? Would a king of the woods, of the copses, of the fields and brush, drag them into snares and traps? The Songbird didn’t know – but she didn’t leave breadcrumbs behind. She only hoped, trusted, and prayed.
 
They stepped over moss and lichen, over puddles and streams, over ripples of greenery still maintained throughout the unwinding season. She wondered if the greater mystery was the illusion itself – if she was dreaming and lost in a thicket, in a time, in a place, where nothing was as it seemed, if she was drunk and deceived on something much grander, much more powerful than herself, if she were a mere speck in the schemes of gods and deities. Or maybe she was nothing at all, and this was all fantasy, all whimsy, and all gold-lacquered falsehoods.
 
The sunlight blinded her as they seemed to cease moving altogether, a reign of beams cast across her eyes, guarding her from secrets and catacombs. Imogen was a crowned laurel of ebullience, a fluttering collection of white and tails and vibrant plumage strung between earthy browns and incandescent greens, bounding closer and closer to a figure rising from the loam. Lena stepped closer, lowering her head so she could see the unveiling of the enigma, the reasoning for their tirade and chase into the labyrinth, then stopped again. “Oh,” was all she said, loosening a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. There’d been no deceptions or ruses. There'd been no games or lies.
 
Her eyes widened as she took him in, as a series of memories popped and sprung along her mind, as the cobwebs untangled from one another and became living ghosts. She remembered him from days long ago, seasons past, a sagacious mage dipped in ivory, clutching an orb, listening to her start to fall apart. How odd it was now – that even years later, she was almost the same, whittling away at the fringes, at the edges, of her strength and devotion, of her diligence and virtue. She bowed her head, tucked a smile along her cheek, and allowed a hallelujah to slip past her lips. “Hello again.” Sadly, she couldn’t recall his name (perhaps she’d never asked; too broken and stupid and inept to conjure anything but the layers of her disappointment), but noted he remembered hers. Had she ever granted it to him? Another puzzle churned along her membrane, warring away other silly, trivial things. “I trust you’re well?”
 
He’d been altered, if only slightly, by the presence of the companion beside him. She understood the deer’s existence now – the crackling spirit once nestled inside the sparkling, bright sphere had been this beautiful essence. Her grin widened as Imogen danced nearer to the stag, eyeing the width of his antlers – and even if he wasn’t truly a god of this forest, this field, Lena still gave him the merit he deserved. “What a clever companion you have.” And after, she didn’t know what to say, what to feel, or where to even begin.