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.