The sunlight was blinding, alluring, and beguiling all at once – it kissed over the scars along her hide and sweetened the end of Frostfall’s chilling fingertips. It traversed the length of her lissome, enigmatic figure like a long-long lover, grateful and secure: a sanctum, a blessing, a paradise pervading canopies and sonnets, odes to a foreign deity, to fire and light. In a daze, they sauntered through vineyards and nestled, tucked away corridors, getting lost in the verdant haze. Filtering through a whimsical dream, they were a piece, a part, of the mirage, ghosting and gliding, stretching out beyond runes and rubble, beyond valleys and winter edges, attempting to settle their roots through unknown, foreign soil. They tried for blossoms and tender nothings, watching as the rest of the world awakened and yawned, as morning filtered through eyelids and speckled through yawns; exhaling and inhaling amongst promised dew and fledgling shoots. The pair eyed bamboo saplings who’d survived the passing season, grinning at their perseverance, at their foreshadowed bounty, at their glorious hallelujah come Birdsong’s gentle swirls and twirls. The duo marched through light and grandeur, shadow and Stygian abyss, embracing the feral bits of freedom, the archaic designs of patchwork greenery, roaming without purpose, without rhyme, without reason – simply existing in another place and time. The fox billowed her tails amidst the wind and the Songbird fluttered on the breeze, without wings, without cages, without anything gilded or confined; mere refinement, hope, and grace. Their eyes cast lingering arias upon crystal waters and reflective pools; and the mirroring effect ignited intriguing reminders of days spent scratching a sword down the length of a hostile, rancorous, belligerent face (hers - so mighty, so angry, so desperate to be freed of the chains of her past and the tethers of the unknown), and seasons just past, dancing on the light of the nocturnal sky and staring at stars.
 
The latter thought made her glance away, brandish her stare among leaves and boughs for fear of the contradiction swallowing her whole – because he pushed and cajoled and enticed her – and she’d almost wanted to spill out every secret, every lie, every truth. She wanted to be known and then she wanted to hide, and it was such an agonizing mess of sentiments and variances, mercurial and capricious, that she preferred it ignored altogether. The notions could lay out of sight, out of mind, never to be touched or regarded again, and she could be safe, furtive, resting on her cloaks, daggers, and songs –
 
Imogen laughed through their connection, wily, kitsune eyes segmented on the beast Lena had just hoped to avoid.
 
Out of ridiculousness, the nymph thought to duck away, become shielded by darkness and the labyrinthine maze, run to some far off corridor where there was no temptation or impulse, no wild inclinations basking and glowing in her heart. He’d be none the wiser, all glistening constellations and marauding grins, wandering down his chosen lanes without hastening or asking or prodding her for anything and everything. Her eyes narrowed for a moment at Imogen, and the vixen’s fangs poked out of her lips, as if suddenly treated with an amusing game, cunning gaze sweeping back towards the beast lingering beyond the trees – almost threatening to expose their hideaway between branches and eaves, between shade and dawn. The maiden shook her head, once, twice, narrowing her gaze, and her companion took a few steps forward, dangling her paw along a tiny twig, arching a brow, tails twitching closer and closer to a few stray leaves – daunting, taunting, eager to make any sound, any noise, to alert their presence.
 
Lena nearly sighed. She knew it was cowardly to hide from him, veracity, and the beckoning quandary of celestial forms and intricacies (but it was so much easier, safer, to stray away from things and moments that purposefully inveigled – after all, what had come from the golden thief?). But she didn’t want to be renowned for being frightened, for being afraid of what could be and what might not even transpire – she’d always been a regal, refined piece of the cold landscape, a benevolent glimmer along the unwinding horizon, and to shield herself from Atlas was brutally unkind and unfair to him. She didn’t dare look at Imogen as the kitsune nodded her head in agreement.
 
Instead, she breathed and took a step forward, extending her crown through a parcel of leaves and shoots, behind him, watching as he strode further and further away, as if she truly had a chance to escape from his notice. But instead of lingering back into the hidden sectors and sanctions, her vocals warbled, sculpted and whittled a melodious tune through the brambles and warren; like she wasn’t tangled in a mire, in a jungle, in a web of her own sentiments. “Good morning!”

Cast back into her elements, the pixie maiden, the fey queen, tilted amongst the leaves and waited for what would come, transpire, between the morning dew and the translucent dawn. For the smallest of seconds, she thought he might linger on, travel down the path less traveled, and she’d be left to her own devices, dipping her toes in sand, stone, soil, or dust, free to reign supreme on her sojourn. The beast surely had better things to do with his time than whittle away the hours with her again, and she put this hope above the temptation, the enticement, the glorious hallelujahs of adventure ringing and rising its way through her lungs and heart.

But it seemed he didn’t – immediately swinging back towards her voice, her sounds, her sonnets, with a grin she’d come to imagine on Cheshire cats and Lucifer benedictions, strung together on boughs of charisma and dauntlessness (for he seemed far too comfortable in his own skin, on parcels of land where no one ruled, where mazes coasted and monsters gathered amongst shadows). She wasn’t sure whether to trust the smile or to be swept away in it, and so the Songbird simply gathered her heart along its walls and forced it to stop pounding away like an echoing drum. Even his eyes seemed swallowing and consuming, and she narrowed hers to a certain degree, as if she hadn’t been snatched away like so many others before her likely had – too encased, too enshrouded, too veiled by the handsome fellow with his constellations and galaxies. Perhaps she hadn’t calculated him correctly before, when they spoke beneath the moon and danced across reflective pools, for he seemed even more brazen, audacious, so bold that she steeled herself as he drew near, waiting in a strange, intriguing silence.

Garbed and draped in fairy finery, in taffeta eaves, in sweet, nourishing regalia, curling, swinging vines, Lena was trapped amidst regality and recklessness. Her walls were up immediately, positioned along their ramparts and fortifications, bright, cheery bulbs to steer the world towards a different sanction. She could duck away, flee, escape the scene with little more than a silly apology and a fretting brow, guilt ringing across her lips but soul still secure, still safe. Or she could embrace the challenge, the recklessness he seemed to own, seemed to wear, seemed to embody in her presence. But she cherished so many things to simply throw them away in pursuit of nothingness, of follies, of whimsical moments with no meaning attached (she’d once notched everything upon smiles and laughter, peace and sanctuary, liberation and deliverance, and look where it’d gotten her). She managed to peek over the hedgerows, the trimmings, of her wooden castle, wondering, pondering, over all the sentiments, over all the foreign, pulsing, beating things. Still, when his maw, his mouth, pressed against her shoulder, a small, miniscule stroke, a simple caress, her flesh shuddered, rippled, beneath the touch, and her eyes lingered completely on his own, questioning, uncertain, confused, and befuddled. What are you doing? they whispered in the breadth of hushed, lavished tranquility. What do you want? they smoked, plumed, and intertwined along the mass of buds and flowers. Yet, she didn’t have the courage, the daring, to bring them to life, so they stayed, strangled and barbed, nettled and thorned, against the rigor and rise of her throat.

The nymph released the breath she’d been holding, felt it cling along her lips as he baited, as he switched from brushing and igniting her senses to teasing, tormenting, with volleys and words. I certainly didn’t know you meant mine - oh, but she had, and she wasn’t sure if she regretted the words as they flew against her, or if she shouldn’t care, entangle her frame the same way he did, without a notion, without a fickle, mercurial thought resting against its sentiment. Perhaps she should’ve chased after his figure, if only to see how he’d come to such strength, such fortitude, when all she knew how to do was go to war against herself. He seemed to grow roots, plant himself deep in the soil, settle where he wanted because he wanted it; and it seemed so strange, so foreign to her, to yearn to take something for her own (wasn’t it selfish?). Imogen wisely said naught, arching her brow once or twice as the scene unfolded, but nestled amongst the bracken and brush, lingering in place to see what shifted and transpired.

The Time Mender truly didn’t know what to say. Words slipped out, followed by a tilt of her head, turning so she was a part of the grove, a part of the labyrinth, a mystical, mysterious, sprite-like enigma, followed by a glimmer of a smile, a bewitching pull of her eyes. “Why shouldn’t I?” Didn’t he want to be chased? This seemed to be his game instead of hers, and she wasn’t sure where to step, where to proceed, or how deep she was going in; it seemed very heady, rolling along her mind in annihilating, vicious conundrums, and she couldn’t make out what she was supposed to be doing.

But the next set of his vocals thoroughly lanced through her - …would you like to get lost with me?  - because something scorching, something blinding, something terrifying burrowed its way into her, and she glanced towards the outcrop of the warren. Wasn’t she already lost? The Songbird hadn’t sensed its treachery before – she’d merely thought it’d been beautiful, entrancing, alluring. It hadn’t been like seasons past, when the mirrors had encircled her, had trapped her, had kept her locked away with nothing and no one (only her rage, sickening and vile, horrible and atrocious, waging battle upon the only things surrounding her – and where had Roland been? Where had he gone?). Another shudder pervaded along her frame, not of warmth, not of delight, but fear, and she hoped he hadn’t seen it as he turned away, as he loitered on the edges of the unknown.

Part of her craved escape instantly. She didn’t want to live through more agonizing moments of terror, horror, and disaster. She didn’t want to beg and plead through screams and wails for someone to come. She didn’t want to wait in silence when no one did, until she clawed, bit, and tore her way out.

Yet, another portion of her fought to be brave, to conquer the age-old demons still whispering in her ears, still hissing in her dreams. She was better, stronger, than the world gave her credit for – and she wouldn’t be defeated by the likes of bitter, rancorous times. Her eyes swept to Atlas’s though, for assurance, for something, a tether she could hold onto (unless he too had every intention of leaving her behind, rotten and worthless, broken and feeble, stupid and weak, tucked away in a corner where no one could find her), but he’d already shifted into the gloom, his tail like Ariadne’s thread.

Imogen, sweet, dear, beautiful, wondrous Imogen, pressed her head along Lena’s columns and winked, gave her every ounce of guidance, of hope, of loyalty – and even if he thought she was naught in the end, the fox would still be there, leading her home.

Maybe she did desire to get lost, out of her head, out of her thoughts, following folly and ebullience instead of torture and destruction. Maybe she did want to embody his daring, his courage, his fearlessness, because she was so tired of being afraid, of never going forward, of pursuing until everything ended up in shambles. Her words echoed through her vocals before she could even think to stop them, strong and poignant, melodious and pressing, intrepid and valiant. “Lead the way!” They flickered on a laugh, on a smile, trying to drown out the terror lodged in her skull. Then she followed, like a moth, drawn towards the stars.

  You tell me, the phrase echoed and bounded against little leaves and floating blossoms, reverberating like a silk screen against her heart, against her mind. She didn’t want to tell him anything. She wanted to sink down into the ground and crawl out elsewhere, over rime and passages built on ice and subterfuge, down the lengths of chilling corridors, and maybe, when she felt safe and secure again, she’d come back out. Her wings felt clipped and her chest felt strange, and everything combined into a mire, a mess, of emotions and sentiments – the Songbird was a slate of delusion and befuddlement, conspiring to escape, to flee, when she’d offered her entity to this silly charade. The femme folded away again, soft, commonplace, so if one were to look closely at bark and branches, the nymph would’ve have blended into their midst, camouflaged from the likes of many. Her thoughts were like the maze before them, all twisted, all blocked, all rigid and contorting and serpentine; nothing fluid, nothing sustained, one more venturing path to the right and then another to the left, marching and matching in unison to loss and bewilderment. Naught was simplistic in these starry encounters, with bristling constellations and harpsichord melodies, and she tried very hard to fight the notion of bristling back into her forest, where familiarity reigned and complexities were ignored, where secrets were still covert, where duplicity was queen.
 
“You scare me a little,” she admitted. Her voice filled the understory and the canopy, flickered and chimed along the hedges, as one chink of the wall was lowered, as if he’d peeked over and saw her resting there, nestled in her heartache. The words had flowed out of her mouth before she could stop them, restless and untangled, woven from frustration and fervency, like their ardor should’ve been given life long ago. Her gaze settled somewhere on a piece of sunlight, ignoring what she presumed would be his heavy, piercing, dual-hued stare (she’d memorized them before – one like the sky, one like gold) centered solely on her, judging, wondering, pondering over the mess she’d made. Lena was terrified of many things – of giving more and more of herself away and watching others stomp on her compassion, witnessing those beloved, those cherished, crossing over new paths and leaving her behind (forgotten, broken and brittle, because she didn’t really matter to them), of being forgotten time and time again no matter what she did or who she met. She was frightened of what the world would bring her again, of stepping out onto ledges, of smiling when she should’ve been angry, of refusing to fight, of refusing to bend, of refusing to tell anyone or anything about the life she’d led. “This place scares me a little.”
 
Her melody, soft and light, glowed in an ambient wave, and her stare resolutely pinpointed upon the grounds in which they waltzed, in which she dug another grave, in which she proffered more of her essence to someone who could potentially destroy her (what was one more?). If the world had been sharpened and shimmering like mirrors, like reflections of her soul, she’d be even more of a mess. If he left her there, lost and forlorn, twisted like the vines, she wasn’t sure what she’d be after she made her way out. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before he too gave up on the little bird, on the fey, on the fairy who could contort grins and shimmer away before anyone thought anything else of her.
 
The Songbird had long since realized that no matter how much she glistened, no matter how much virtue she possessed and tried to sprinkle, spark, and pervade through the realms, none of it stuck. Her heart was in a million pieces, all over the vast empires, wrecked and ruined, beautiful and incandescent, strewn amongst gardens and fires, rivers and valleys. It lay across ice and snow, fog and mist, sand and soot, waterfalls and pools. It had broken in wars, when her fury collided with might. It had splintered against monsters, when she’d tried to protect those she cherished. It had fractured when she fell on the ground, emblazoned and emboldened, because of her own foolish mistakes. It had ruptured across waterfalls and battle hymns, when she was captured trying to make it to her brethren. It had shattered when she was left alone each and every time, the endless cycle on repeat. It had scattered to the wind when she recognized her purpose, her determination, her motivations, would never be enough to keep anything or anything tied together. “I used to run into the unknown even with these fears.” I used to be brave, she thought. “Now, I just flee from it.” Then, she stilled into another pitch of silence, glancing into the abyss as he lingered along the threshold, as she paused, in the midst of escaping again. Lead the way she’d said on a flicker, on a laugh, on an audacious piece of pretense neither he or she believed, and when he tried, she remained stuck, struck by her own weakness.

 The walls had been built up years and seasons before – perfected, intricate designs with glistening spirals and ruffian smiles, growing blossoms and roots, settling in front of her features so when she frowned, there was a grin, and when she grew afraid, there was bravery notched into her brow, and when she tried to escape, her legs stood solid, staunch, and stalwart. She’d always been guarded, safe, secure, delving into portions and avenues where she couldn’t be hurt, where the air was still and the harmony was delightful, and nothing, no one, found old wounds. While they walked, while she stared at hedges and greenery, the same ramparts were bright, luminescent bulbs, and herself a shroud, a veil, of too many truths and too many lies, buried and burrowed down into her soul, partially hoping he’d cease the chase (tired of her, as everyone else had been, the girl who gave nothing away but benedictions and virtues, wisdom and sagacity), and partially hoping he’d stay, keep listening to her crushed heart and broken ambitions. Her eyes lifted again, beyond the heady, verdant embraces, the crushed leaves, the snapped twigs, Imogen’s curling, fanning tails, startled to find his gaze on her frame again, incapable of understanding why he stayed, why he cared, when the world had always told her she didn’t matter. Was that why she feared him – because he didn’t give in to her ploys, to her tricks, to her duplicity, and she was left with no alternative but to face the woes of reality, the sickening plunge of heartache? Was that why she feared this place – because she thought he’d eventually trap her here, between corners and vines, and make her give in to his queries, to his questions, to his curiosity? Eventually, he’d find her sculpture, her figure, her soul lacking, and leave, in a fold of silence, on an air of repose and disquiet, and she’d be alone again. The Songbird had memorized those laments, requiems, and dirges long before she’d even known the twinkle of stars and the strength of galaxies. She’d heard the strains in a bed of wildflowers, in a desolate forest, and trapped behind a catacomb of mirrors; sometimes it angered her, sometimes it conquered her, and sometimes, she simply gave in to the pain of never being enough for anyone or anything. It would be another continuation of the same motif when his constellations had seen the little things she truly was, and subsequently shuffled away, disappointed in her inabilities, in her transgressions, in her character.
 
But his words still held her in place, even while they were wandering, revered and raptured by the depths of them, by the rattle, by the tones. He said she shouldn’t fear him, he was not another, and the guilt flooded to her cheeks – she looked away, down at her feet, at the forest floor, at the labyrinth runes. She was ashamed to have judged him already, to have presumed he’d be one more beast who glanced at her and saw nothing of use, of interest, of appeal, but her life had been filled with these monsters and fiends, infidels and pariahs, family and friends. Some she cherished, some she never saw again, some who avoided her singsong wares and her tender face. “Why?” The nymph asked in the cover of shadow, beneath a bough lingering close to her cheeks, ducking beneath its hothouse blooms, and queried the notion again after it brushed through her mane, her forelock, her horn. “Why shouldn’t I fear you?”
 
Then she turned back, staring out at the endless abyss, wondering how far they’d go before they were both hopelessly lost (she already much more than him, she presumed), before the desire to flee instead of stay pounded against her temple, made her limbs quake, shudder, and escape back into comforts and delusions instead of the cold, hard reality staring straight back at her. Still, as they roamed, she could almost hear him thinking, conspiring, and her heart ached with a sensation of dread, fearing the incoming storm, where he’d cut his losses and she’d be without the stars behind her eyes or the heavens swirling past her chest. Instead, as his words chased after hers, as they tangled with the undergrowth and the shell she’d become, the Mender had to give a great pause, a sweltering breath. So what exactly are you afraid of? “Many things,” she smiled, demure, shrinking into the light and shadow, but knowing full well he wouldn’t stop there; perhaps he’d press and press until she folded or fell apart, leave her raw and open with the aches, with the pains, centuries old and worn, rubbled, ruined, despondent and wicked. But her words ran on again, because he listened, and if one day he ran his sword through her chest because he knew her faults, her weaknesses, those blasted imperfections, then she only had herself to blame (and it usually rested across her shoulders anyway, so what would be so different?). “Sometimes I’m afraid of being abandoned.” The fairy had been all throughout her life, one after the other, sprinkling all of her hopes and dreams on taffeta, on lace, on strings, watching them fray and fall apart and being incapable of tying them back together. “Sometimes I’m afraid of being useless.” She felt him stop but she just kept going, a sapling, a bloom, outstretching and looking for the sun. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m not good enough.”
 
Her eyes turned to his again, amber and honeyed, lost and bewildered, searching endlessly for a seraphic blessing out in the middle of nowhere. She broke her habit of pondering eternally in silence, in fabrication, in holy attributes and rites; for if he was permitted to delve into her figure, into her essence, then she had every right to do the same – and neither felt cruel, vehement, or malicious. It was just and fair, protective and furtive, a weaving of her cloak and daggers all over again. He’d taken lead, but she could campaign too. “What are you afraid of?” I could chase it away, if you let me.

  She’d spent her entire lifetime chasing after stars. They were glorious, blinking lights, far, far, far beyond her reach, intertwining and twinkling, past spirits and remnants of years past, of ghosts she’d never known, of deities she’d never see. They’d always been transfixing, a lure, a siren, billowing along the horizon and through the clouds, diving between the moon and the sun. In her youth, she’d find a constellation and point to the dots with her muzzle, talk to herself as midnight turned to dawn, count them aloud until there were none left and her eyes drooped heavily in slumber. Then, in her dreams, she’d touch them, all waxen, all glorious, all tangible, beautiful things, no longer alone with just the backdrop, surroundings, and forest beside her. They’d been a fascination, because they were a part of heaven and earth, virtuous and kind, compassionate and luminescent, glowing, lustrous, untamed by the sky, incapable of being swindled and moved by anyone but themselves. She’d once believed them to be figures and legends transcribed from stories and myths, heroes and heroines who’d managed to conquer monstrous foes, vanquish demons, crush enemies and fiends, freeing the world from treacheries and travesties. Galaxies aligned and beams were cast, seasons changed, groves altered, and kingdoms eroded, but the stars always remained, wise and infinite, strong and enduring. Like him, Atlas, a map of the heavens, she presumed – virile and resilient, corporeal and real, and too much for her to ever hope for. Her youth taught her about insignificance. Her days within Helovia taught her to pursue (to dream, to believe, if she was ever going to amount to anything, anything at all, then she had to dig, scrape, build, and cast shades, cloaks, and veils, because no one would have ever cared about the little sprig wandering in on wraiths, phantoms, and war). Then, they’d informed her she wasn’t worth anything. It’d been a harsh, unrelenting barb to take, when all she’d ever wanted to do was love.
 
His touch, fleeting, gentle, had been on her before she could balk, before she could flee, before she could run away and hide again. Out of habit, her eyes gestured to the ground, over roots and shrubs, over thickets and groves, on points and pieces her body, her mind, knew well. But then his chin lifted hers, brushed away, aside, and she came face to face with the sky, with the sun, with the morning dew and the wide-open canopies, where stars would bleed in the midnight varnish, and flickering back over to his hide, where they seemed to rest during the day (and at night too – a constant beacon, an alluring shield). The Songbird couldn’t belong there, nestled in paradise, waltzing through Elysian fields, dancing and trilling along empyrean gardens – but her eyes couldn’t resist entangling back to his (afraid, so weary and frightened, craving everything but incapable of saying the words, incapable of believing), listening to the phrases, to the assurances, to the oaths he declared. Because you deserve more than the earth - and already she wanted to interrupt, to shake her head, to disagree. What had she ever done to be apart of the celestial whims and the mercurial expanse? It wasn’t enough to be kind, to be compassionate, to hide, to coat herself in armor, to waver and fall into the cracks of iniquity and morality. That’s all she’d ever done in her life – give, give, and give, take, then give again, always poised and ready for the fall, for the earth to reach out and swallow her whole, for happiness to fade and for everyone to disappear with it, leave her behind for another span of time. “I wouldn’t be enough for them,” she stated, staring at him, at his frame, at his figure, committing to the double meaning, to the layers lacquered and smoothed in between each melody, each softened, quiet curve, “But I want to be.”
 
We are more alike than you know.
 
While she gazed, while she gazed, she continued pondering, wondering, over the mystique and mystery of Atlas, denying the threads he claimed to be stuck within. He couldn’t be as tethered as she, not when he was so assured, so confident, so capable, wielding traps and snares, pitfalls and declarations she kept tripping in. Where had all the convictions come from? Where had all the strength reigned? Why did he bother with her at all, with her irrelevant presence, with her worthless, meaningless punctures? He could be the same as everyone else – walking by, uncaring, indifferent, shrugging as one more piece of her fell away, as one more smile managed to flicker and dim, as one more sliver of her heart died. But he prevailed, just like she had done for months, for seasons, for years, until it all seemed so wretchedly tiring, until it all seemed to no longer matter, and she spent her days in listless, languid intricacies, running, fleeing, escaping from everyone and everything. When she was ragged and torn, when it was all too late and she’d been scorned, scattered to the winds, he appeared – tenacious and bold, wild and enduring, all the things she used to be. You will no longer be any of those things, so long as I am here he’d chimed, he’d echoed, he’d brandished, and she blinked, narrowed her eyes, drew all the suspicions and luster, ignored Imogen’s head shaking and demure chirps, and extended more of the pain she’d always found inflicted on herself (gone, gone, and gone again; all on the wind and the rain, the fog and the mist, never telling her where they were going, never caring about what they left behind). “And when you leave?” As soon as the query left her mouth she regretted it, spurned the acidic taste flowing along her tongue, and reached out to his cheek, pressed her soft maw to his warm skin, apologetic at once. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
 
Perhaps they were simply much too broken, too cracked, too chiseled and sculpted away by others. There were some pieces of her floating off along the Edge, where she’d battled with her own ferocity as they waged war. There were some slivers of her left on the Endless Blue, where she’d sculpted her own selfishness into burns and vehemence. There were pinnacles and pedestals of her stretched all across the Basin, from healing, from scaling great heights, from daring to dream when she should’ve known better. But, as he gave name to his fears (she wondered if hers had sounded just as silly, when his were so easily refuted), she smiled again, forcing herself not to look at the ground, but up, up, up, towards the sky and clouds, towards his figure, towards his strength. “You’ve already proven you're capable,” the nymph winked, glancing back along a string of vines, of blossoms, of blooms ready and eager to join the sun. Lord, we are fools, she wanted to whisper into the void, into the jungle, into the labyrinth they’d quartered themselves in, but perhaps they both knew it enough so the notion didn’t need a voice.

  The maiden had always known the essence of being alone - it was corporeal, it was tangible, it stuck in shadow and fluttered in the light. She’d survived in its hollows for eternity, drinking in the punctured rims of pine copses and the twisting, turning fronds of leaves. She’d grown on its requiems, on its laments, on its beauty and sadness, vowing to extend herself past all the desolation – where parts of her soul could reach out and be remembered for their sanctity, for their compassion. The Mender had done just that, on delightful, curling laughter, on a harmonious lilt, on a surgeon’s scalpel, on a nurse’s furrowed brows. She’d been committed, she’d been strong, she’d been forthright in her oaths, convictions, and assurances, sprinkled them like pixie dust, like iron-will, like silk on steel, like ribbons, lace, and taffeta, sometimes light, sometimes airy, but always there - but somehow, the rest of the world simply hadn’t seen them. Her kindness had been repaid in gruff nods, in seething accusations, in curt, obligatory thanks, a paltry sum of gratitude, then nothing else. It’d been selfish to expect anything, so she’d ceased in those tender hopes of someone glancing her way and recalling her beneficence, of igniting it and placing it somewhere else so that the moments grew, so that the realms understood there was repose amidst all the iniquities, sanctuary along all the throes, generosity layered beneath all the sins and transgressions. Maybe some had, and she’d never seen the blooms. Perhaps some had merely traveled too far, on a song, on a laurel, on a rapture or reverie, and she’d missed it, glowing along the horizon, a portion of her spirit, intrepid and daring, managing to coax one more into virtue and divinity. But in all her time, all she’d managed to do was scrape up more armor for herself, so those silly little dreams weren’t completely crushed, annihilated, bruised, and defeated – then climb up her campanile steps and look out across the void, where the kingdoms still slithered, still crawled, still craved assaults over armistices. Her transgressions flickered with the embers of everyone else’s, and she could only watch as they all marched to the same barbaric hymn, a battlefield dirge, a war-torn refrain. But you can change its tune, she’d once said to him, racing across mirrors.
 
Defiant to the last, Atlas was still coaxing her from that damned tower.
 
She’d ducked and swerved away from a hedge’s thorns when he first began humming. It was a light tune she knew well, one she composed frequently in absent-minded hallelujahs, slipping it along her mouth on silly tangents or impossible aspirations (from the rain, from the mountains, from the rush of the wild and the gentleness of the sea). Her brow arched, and an ear followed the rugged tones, crown, tiara, sparks tilting as she became all the more enticed to hang out the minaret’s window, listening to the strain coaxed, curled, and contorted by his baritones – something inside her laughed, dreamy and fanciful, wandering from the midst of her heart and her lungs, tangled in the bracken, in the glaze, in the despair. It whittled away at the air, left it whimsical and radiant, austere and brazen, before she joined him, completely enticed from her locked aperture and out into the afternoon haze. Her only duets had been with the birds and the sun, the moon and the earth, she’d always shared the vibrancy, the tones, the notes with whomever passed by, but this was different, and even Imogen didn’t pulse and pervade the floating aria with her chirps and chirrups. The Songbird’s contributions started soft, dulcet, like a vacant touch, a fond caress, molding and sculpting into his with ease and delicacy, a pleasant finesse, a stroke of mellifluousness, a rush of celestial, an embrace of the reckless. “When I first saw you,” the words rushed, twirled, swirled, past her lips on a rapturous breath, an inhale, an exhale, giddy and wondrous, “I thought you were one of our fallen Gods, coated and painted in stars.” He’d known exactly what he was doing (and suddenly she didn’t care, grateful for it, for the chance to spread her wings and flutter around again; all fey and fairy instead of drowned damsel) – and still she carved out a segment of the labyrinth for her spirit to rise, not looking at him and his stars, but the endless, open sky. Her melody changed, spun, gilded and vibrant, echoing along in a honeyed, smooth benediction, merry, bright, commanding, demanding for the world to see her as she truly was – stalwart and strong, hopeful and tender, craving the same absolution as everyone else. If she’d fallen for his spells, then so be it, because the rush of prowess and potency pervading her soul was more than she’d felt in seasons. Her edges weren’t lined with ghosts. Her smile wasn’t placed in front of hidden layers. It was just real, full of convictions and radiance: all from a song.
 
Lena swerved ahead of him, chasing after blossoms and blooms, laughter springing from her lips, laurels curving over her seraphic bliss, chiming in sublime fortitude and opulent, unattainable grandeur. She only turned her head to look at him as he spoke over her inhibitions, her blunt, curt words that had sizzled and seethed over her tongue, regretful, remorseful, grin dimming a fraction as she listened. Neither of them had spells or invocations to tell the future, but she’d been too muddled, rattled, obstinate, because she’d known, experienced, what it was like to love, love, and love, and to watch it be slashed, cut away. She couldn’t fathom the man’s patience, understanding, forbearance, or composure towards her – how he eased, how he shed, one particle of her armor after another and she just didn’t seem to care anymore, letting them fall away, stripped. What kind of beast had she dabbled with? “I wasn’t fair.” The sylph shook her head, and the slim smile threatened to fade off into nothingness, but she courted it back, struggled not to delve into the nooks and crannies of her isolation again. “But I’m used to being left alone.” The grin slid off a corner, then lifted back up once more (subversive, rebellious, like she used to be, not bothering about what someone thought of her).
 
Then he told her start making demands, that it was fine to crave, to want, to yearn and take things for herself, but she balked a little, narrowed her eyes and looked at the stalks and boughs of trees, the limbs passing by, always slightly out of reach. “The last time I wanted something,” she mused, pressing her lips together at the haunting memories, at the selfishness crawling and seething down into the annals of her heart, where they’d scorched her to pieces, left her wondering why she’d ever embarked on such a ridiculous, treacherous sojourn. “I was set on fire.” A raw, fleeting chuckle left her throat, extinguished quickly into the dust, into the mended, burnt scars crisscrossed and webbed on her back, beneath the fine, sienna tufts of hair, so he could see just how inept she was, she’d been, when daring to clasp something she shouldn’t have been handling (but now the danger, the allure, was hers, and she’d taken, put herself and Roland in harm’s way, for the ability to maim someone else). “I got what I wanted, but it likely wasn’t worth it. So I stopped trying.”

   It’s a good thing I’m not, he’d responded to her line about gods, about stars painted on coats, about galaxies and their rotating axis. Curiosity indulged, entreated, her to a bit of wondering on her part, as she turned to glance at him from the corner of her eyes – brooding and tempestuous again, a turbulent means controlled by a makeshift quilt of something she couldn’t quite ascertain. Why wouldn’t he want to follow what so many others dreamed of: far-off kingdoms aligned in heaven, all-powerful rites and enchantments, omniscient and immortal, granting abilities, hindering mortals, delivering gifts of bestowal and acceptances of the inevitable? Why would he yearn, crave, and desire the capability to see everything in the world? Had he already ghosted too far into Elysium, once, twice, and realized what it truly was? Had he already climbed Jacob’s ladder before, witnessed the top of puffy clouds and whimsical barbs, and found it wasn’t to his liking? Had he fallen, wings cut away, to journey with the rest of them, destined to intertwine with determination, falsehoods, and merriment, until that was gone too? “I don’t mind,” she shrugged, appeasing him with a lighthearted grin and features that were all the more emboldened, consuming the liberation, the freedom, he gave her, he pushed her towards.
 
Another had done that for her before, but she shoved those memories aside, ignoring the chill rushing through her skull.
 
Instead, she glimmered on gilded crowns and sparkling tiaras, placing the webbing, the crawling, the hurt aside, staring at canopies and loose, shaking leaves on the wind, propelling her inquiries into reality, forgoing the veils and shrouds, the cloaks and daggers, because if he got to see her for what she truly was, it was only right he’d do the same for her. “If not a God, what have you always wanted to be?” The Songbird asked her question upon the breeze, carefully crafted in dulcet tones, so as it surely met his ears she could stare upon him, watch his expression, and ponder the munitions behind celestial bodies and fragmented ideals. It didn’t matter to her what he was, truly, she’d already accepted him for all the actions he’d enabled, all the deliverance he’d shared, all the locks, all the cages he’d opened; but audacity and boldness had crept in with her valor, incapable of being shut away with the rest of her sins and transgressions.
 
The fairy must’ve looked away when he began uttering his regrets, glancing down the lane of hedges and jungle vines, peering through the gaps and corridors, the strange, unwinding avenues that cut away in all sorts of different directions. Instead of being lost, of being trapped, of being ensnared in the warren, she’d been freed, and she almost choked on a gale of laughter, on a spirited giggle formed along her tongue. But she did just the opposite, arching her brow at the beast who took blame, who took shame, for things far out of his control. “You have no reason to apologize.” She did laugh then, preferred it open and carved on another gale of wind, watching the flowers and buds again as they waved it away; as Imogen chirped and chirruped beneath swiveling brush and fronds, never asking if she was all right, understanding the need to press on, to not break, to not shatter under the weight of so many memories.
 
The little fey shuddered though, when he crept behind her and touched, delicately, softly, over the scars mottled down her back (scorched marks from Gaucho himself; because he’d chosen to hate instead of propose armistice, because she’d asked to receive fire and brimstone in her heart, in her soul, and the Sun God had done exactly that, stared at her like she’d been the biggest fool at her request, and again when she returned, blighted and marred). She didn’t shy away, she didn’t flee, but her muscles bunched beneath the lightness of his touch, and her stare went downcast, for a just a few moments, before she turned her head and glanced at him again. Her smile had faded, drawn back into a line, brows furrowed, sketched in contemplation and concern, because she wouldn’t have wanted him there, just like she shouldn’t have asked Roland to come (but she’d been so scared, so frightened, so stupidly, idiotically selfish). “It’d been a quest I appealed from the Sun God,” she admitted, she pressed, she ensured he’d see her for an absolute cretin, leave her there in the labyrinth, incapable of helping her any further, for she was too far gone. The nymph’s voice grew a little quieter, barely above a whisper, when she uttered her sins and iniquities. “I wanted magic to protect my herd, and it came with a price.” Eyes lifted to his, powerful and courageous in their own right. “Even if you’d been there, you couldn’t have saved me the pain. It was for me to endure, to understand, what I’d asked of him.” Then she smiled again, a sheen brighter than before, wrapped and coiled around her lips, along her mouth, amidst the foils and fumbles of her days spent in Helovia. “So don’t take my mistakes upon yourself. Those are mine to carry.”

  Revelations stirred from the vestiges of vines and hedges, mysteries a little less intertwined, enigmas a little more than spitfire and ash, clouds of the unknown come to hover like fog, like mist, like rain. She gazed upon the man who claimed he had no ambition, no wants, and no aspirations clinging to his skull and pointing him down pathways; and she wondered what such an existence could entail. Wandering? Wayfaring? Living nomadically, a Gypsy fanfare, rummaging past lines in the sand and billowing wind, tossing aside anything and everything, collecting nothing, taking what one could, snatching, clawing, then leaving it all over again? Were there no attachments? No bonds? No oaths to loyalty, to assurances, to convictions and confidences? The Songbird narrowed her eyes for a fraction, truly studying the starry figure before her, pondering over the lengths of loneliness, if they rattled the senses, muddled the mind, pierced into desolation and seclusion until it all seemed so very normal. To some, it might’ve been a blessing, an opportunity to run and chase down the world without any responsibility, without any connections, without a sense of fondness holding, mooring, anchoring them to anyone or anything. To others, it might have been a ruin, a cumbersome weight across their shoulders, inescapable, morose, and destitute. She wasn’t sure which portion settled upon Atlas, too strong, too bold, too refined to be without anything holding him in place. But the nymph had gone through her life on a list of experiences, wants, and longings, stirred towards bliss, towards virtue, towards friends, companionship, love, and compassion – it had been rooted in her since she was born and left, shrinking into the wildflowers, crawling beneath leaves and boughs. “Shame we didn’t find each other then,” she said on a slip of a laugh, as it trickled through the shroud and veil of petals and soft, dulcet dewdrops (like she hadn't been busy running after demons felled by swords, chasing after blue-eyed brigands, hoping to become something more). Her brow arched, regal and noble, lips pursing together for a moment, deep in thought, in concentration, deciding whether or not to voice her next inquiry; but he’d been encouraging her boldness, her daring, her dauntlessness, so it slid along her mouth in the next interval, the harbored lull. If he was anxious, she never felt it. “There’s truly nothing you’ve ever wanted to do?”
 
The concept mystified her, because she’d always craved an ability to do something: fly off into the mountains on a brilliant gale, dance below the horizon’s shifting colors, sing until the moon fell and the sun rose, protect, shield, and safeguard those she held dear – her life could’ve been eternal on the wings of her dreams. Some were feasible, others were not, and she could settle for the ones pinioned to her heart, reverent and rapturous.
 
But then the query folded back to her, and she grinned again, radiant, bright, casting her eyes back towards the sky, where they imagined the bits and pieces of her past, the trial, the errors, the interesting construction and composition of how she’d come to be here, now. “I tried a couple things. I was once an Emissary. I went to war several times. I battled monsters and friends,” here, her eyes slid down, towards a few tree trunks and pale, ivory blossoms, then back to Atlas’s features, casting everything back into a holy sanctuary, a refined portion of grace and poise (as if she’d never been a demon herself, a lie, because she’d shed blood and she’d stabbed and she’d lacerated, bested a mare who was only trying to defend her home). “I discovered I enjoyed healing much more. Soothing others is enough. It’s a purpose.” Enough to keep her content, satisfied, when the day ended and she and Imogen drifted off on their own, bundled into the cold wares and the assuaging snow, staring out over darkness, musing on what the next day would bring. Enough to parade over the edges of those who’d been lost, of those who’d wandered off, of those who’d no sooner cast them off a cliff. Some days it didn’t matter at all; too tired, too exhausted, too fatigued, to even begin to ponder over where inspirations and invocations had led her.
 
His even tones, his shrug of her endeavors and assuaging marks, cast her own silly wares, maneuvering out of his grasp, out of his reach, toying with the ruffian vines and the rambling garden, maneuvering closer to a series of copses and groves that spun out in every direction – as far as the eye could see – without signs, without indicators, of where they ceased and where they twisted; a lost paradise. Lena didn’t stop to think about what he meant; she always carried her own trials and tribulations – if she was foolish enough to cast an error, it was hers and hers alone, no one else had the right to claim her mistakes and poor judgment. If she permitted the world to forgive her so readily for stupidity, for ineptitude, for selfishness, then when would she ever grow, ever learn, ever tire of doing the same ridiculous things day in and day out? The Sun God had taught her a valuable lesson when she’d asked for her power – that everything came with a price. “I wouldn’t ask you to bear any of my burdens, Atlas,” she called, strong and defiant, a warning, increasing another arch to her brow, as she traversed further, along a path riddled with stones and pebbles, shining beneath the glint, the glamor, of the sun. 

  From the day she’d been born until this moment, where she stood beneath the sun, the leaves, and the blossoms, she’d been striving to prove she wasn’t worthless. Some months had been futile, and from her grins she only received the sneers, the taunts, the narrowed, hostile gazes, and she’d tasted the first flavor of acrimony settled over her skin (hated it – the way the bitterness crawled across her flesh, the way the hatred melted and scalded her heart). Other instances had been marred by her own ineptitude, flailing around and smiling and loving the fog, the mist, the horizon, and failing to notice not everyone else rejoiced in her warmth, in her benedictions. Their eyes had scorched her again, one by one, confused by her rapturous indulgences, by the way she scaled mountains with reverence, how she wanted to play games and capture grins and enjoy everything to the fullest – or when she embarked into cruelty, into hatred, into violence. It’d cut across her eyes and bled into her sockets, forged an unsavory, vicious speck in her chest, and there’d been endless nights where she didn’t sleep in those cold, dark caves, afraid she’d awaken and find she’d become just as hideous as she’d imagined. Then there had truly been moments where she’d felt the pull, the rush, the sensation that she was useful - when her lips uttered beautiful incantations, when her mouth parted on sonnets and wellwishes, when her honeyed, dulcet harmonies became gilded threads and sewed wounds shut, when the golden canvas of all her dedication, all her forbearance, struck down the gods of death and she triumphed, ensuring one more of her brethren weren’t taken across the river Styx. So the maiden did it again and again, over and over, spinning her invocations until there were fluttering wings beating against savage, nefarious lacerations, until there were hallelujahs instead of funeral pyres, until rivulets of blood were only stains against flesh and sinew.
 
That’s where they differed so severely. She gave her life to others, and he gave his freedom. It would’ve been a shame if we had, he uttered, and she felt a surge of disappointment flicker through her frame – but she didn’t name it, didn’t give any sentiment to it.
 
There were other notions to fixate upon, like the nudge along her nape, like the statements he painted. He wanted to inspire, to motivate others, because anything he’d ever craved had already been accomplished. She furrowed her brows a little, perusing through the scope of thoughts and feelings, looking at the rustling leaves and the length of trees blending across the day’s earnest light, before capturing the entire notion along her tongue. “You wish to be someone’s muse?” The femme was so uncertain about the lines stuck in between, if he was ushering her towards something else, if he thought she could manage without being driven, being determined, on the same actions all the time – but then he asked something else.
 
A portion of her crackled, and she couldn’t fight it. It seared and scorched, it rattled and rankled, it knelt in the tiara of thorns she’d worn before, and her gaze narrowed to the slightest of slits, angered, annoyed, vexed because he thought her work tedious. He thought it was uneventful, colorless, unvaried. The femme carried her composure well, but it seethed beneath her skin, and she couldn’t fully comprehend just why his inquiry irked her so; failing to glance at Imogen’s knowing smile, at her stoic, reticent gaze, at the uncanny notions swirling in her moving tails. She merely maneuvered forward again, out of his reach, escaping the distracting strokes, provoked, challenged, sizzling under her layers of finesse and morality. Her calm melody flowed again, appearing across the canopies and understories with harmonious ease, but infused with too much passion, too much fervency, captivating, beguiling, and alluring, true fey essence billowing over the zealous stream. “When a mother begs you to heal their broken child, would you find it tiresome?” The Songbird’s eyes remained locked solely on his, staring into the mismatched sanctions, all heart, all hidden, tucked away fury, all memories stored and haunted, poignant, bleeding babes silent on the floor, tortured souls yearning for release, for escape, for something to ease their strife. “When a soldier defends his homeland and asks for nothing in return, would you find it dull?” Did he think she was worthless too? Did he believe what she did, day in and day out, assuaging, soothing, ensuring someone had one more moment, one more hour, one more season, was completely meaningless? “When tortured souls finally make it back to their kingdom, would you find it boring?” She released a molten breath, a rancorous sigh, but not her stare; it was vigilant and fiery – made of more elements than she could ever begin to understand. “No, not for one moment have I ever found healing to be tedious.”
 
Perhaps he hadn’t meant it in such a way, but she was already unraveled, hung together by bits of string and lace, worn-out taffeta that had been strung too tight, beating a much wilder tempo, crescendo, than she’d intended, and the last act of his words left her bristling again – as if everything could just be shoved aside, as if every moment she’d ever encountered didn’t matter, and she shouldn’t care, shouldn’t learn, shouldn’t prosper from the things she carried, the strife she’d caused, the ventures she shared. He was full of mischief, and she was so confused, so bewildered, that she didn’t sink into the game; the lines had been too crossed, toyed with, rattled. “They’re a part of me. They’re my mistakes and my errors. I can’t cast them into the wind.” Is that all he did? Is that why everything seemed so easy to him?