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?