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.”