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.