I want to reconcile the violence in your heart

The Birdsong air drew her out from caves, and the pair began their dance. On bright mornings they sang to the shadows and called to the valley, pulsing and unwinding, trying to remember days not spent in restlessness, in melancholy, in self-loathing, but bliss and peace and contentment. Perhaps they are too far gone, and the fox and her beloved merely trampled on bits and pieces of what used to be – yet, they still tried, immersing themselves into cloaks, daggers, and splendor, drinking in the plumes of radiance and regality. Their steps were light, composed and comprised of ethereal banter and elegant toils, one limb elongated and the other three following suit, until their waltz is a spinning, silly masquerade of laughter, giggles, and arias, and something lifted from their hearts. The spell unraveled along their frames, across their brows, and was left haphazardly along the wind, plucked and pulled, segmented and torn, untamed and savage as it reached for the sky, and they didn’t look back at its worn, timeless, old face – the tangible crags and dials of misery. One day, they believed, their demons would be conquered and the haunting measures scratching over their skulls would be nothing, nothing at all but the slender pitter-patter of rain or the ghostly apparitions of winter’s dying breath. It would disappear along with the other miserable tokens of their lives, all friends lost, all companions scattered, all precious, cherished souls flown into the abyss, and curve, sculpt, its way anew; their determination, their perseverance, could never quite be denied. Songbird trills still held their same beautiful, lyrical orchestras; her symphony couldn’t, wouldn’t, be altered by anyone else’s motives (for it was her passion, her ardor, her cravings, her desires, her ability to chase the stars and still long for nights bathed in freedom, in liberation that made her who she was).

They might have continued as ivory fox and earthen maiden, down into the dusky hollows and roots of fir, where the little saplings were springing up from their frosty solace, when a familiar scent trickled its way through their nares. Lena ceased movement immediately, a silent poet laureate, gaze sliding toward the borders, on the steel edges of the Sentinels and the strange notion nestled beyond it. Caneo - her heart and mind remembered – a man who’d once belonged in the Basin, all white, all snow, all intrigue and mystery. Roland had brought him within their peaks and summits, smiles and charms, enigmas and quandaries. But thereafter, she couldn’t recall seeing him (either of them; a traitorous, mutinous glow curled its way from Imogen, and Lena had no response), soon thereafter. Perhaps he’d been one of the many who disappeared into the mountains, or choked on too much wind, fleeing into the midnight oils as fast as they could. However, the nestling of hope, one she’d attempted to extinguish but it sparked and incensed amidst her chest nonetheless, renewed its blossoming twirls, and before she knew it, her limbs were bounding across thawing ice and speckled rime, Imogen closing in behind her.

Her thoughts buoyed from one to the next, a funnel of excitement, tension, and possibilities. Weren’t they friends? She hazarded a guess. Could he have gone somewhere with Caneo, and now they’re returning? She speculated, and Imogen shook her head, knowing full well the breadth of anticipation was to be ruined (for naught surrounding the former Thief existed there). Still, the sylph, the fairy, the fae, burrowed herself into the confines, the aperture, of the mountain bliss and surged beneath the Sentinels’ grim stares, smile widened and elongated and radiant, staring down at the familiar beast below. “Caneo!” Even if they’d only met on several occasions, she treated him as an old, dear friend, hustling and hurtling down into the depths of remaining snow and chiseling her way towards his, allowing a few yards of distance as her breath coiled in delicate, vibrant curls. On a wish, her gaze looked beyond him towards the trees and the outcrops, and Imogen chirped wildly, trying to snag her away from what surely would be heartbreak. The sprite’s features bloomed as they rested once more the stallion’s figure, all warmth and generosity. “How have you been faring?”

the songbird