i want to reconcile the violence in your heart

Her smile was radiant, aglow, varnished in resplendence, in kin and kind regard for the runes of creatures and their bonded friends. She was content for Caneo to have found something to tie himself to – even if it wasn’t the snow, even if it wasn’t chilling valleys and dark, icy caves. "A companion," the Songbird’s voice curled, soft and ardent, beautiful and mellifluous, gliding through the last vestiges of winter and the radiance of oncoming spring. There was a certainty in her following nod, in the way her eyes flickered back to the snake’s, genuine, compassionate, and benevolent despite all the warnings about serpents and their ilk. Caneo could not possibly hold a sinister creation, and so she presided in the way she always did amongst those blessed to have another tethered amidst themselves - fond and sweet, warm and bright. The fairy pondered over their connections, their ideals, if they’d found their entities wrapped and coiled amongst one another, each thought a twin to the other, or if the reptile was too young to have emboldened him on anymore feats and journeys. Her heart widened and ached for the two – cherishing their newfound bond, their restless spirits, acknowledging that one day they’d be so joined, so together, that they could conquer whatever they faced. The femme was certain; her convictions, her oaths, her promises with Imogen had always found her favor (at this thought, Imogen grinned, a little bit smug in her foxy eyes, chirping fondness and intertwining between the femme’s black columns). "You'll do well together." A second nod followed, always positive, always assured, of the strength forged between souls. She just never knew how much hers would falter, wane, or grow.
 
Lena watched his eyes narrow as their diatribe continued, paying close attention to where she’d strayed, to where her moments had been too light, where she’d played at hiding beneath a blade of grass, where she’d proclaimed innocence and nothingness when there’d been so much more tampering with her perseverance. Her ears flicked, once, twice, catching over the snare of his words and wondering if he was attempting to lay her into a trap (wouldn’t it be just, she thought, for a once sneak to slither his way into a serpentine of secrets?). But the fey gave him naught, nothing at all but the bare bones of laughter, a gentle sprinkle of giggles and warmth that had been administered so many times before – and then she’d be left alone, with no one asking, no one conjuring more queries and questions. "Yet, they make wonderful assistants." She even embellished her smile, as bright and brilliant as ever, proving an ambience, a pretense, over all the bitter, harmful, rancorous moments she’d been dealt. The rest of the world didn’t need to know of her failures, not when they already burned a hole in her chest, not when they already seethed and tormented her dreams.
 
Then, he shifted, and her guard dropped, smile dimming a fraction, a lightness fading from her gaze (I miss it here, he said, and her mouth almost loosened, almost obliged him), because the vocals pressing thereafter shoved a knife straight into her heart. I wonder if Roland… was enough to dismay the residual hopes she’d clung to (that he’d been safe, sure, fine with Caneo, and they were journeying together, miles and miles away from them, craving and hankering to discover new worlds without her. That’d been okay too, she’d told herself, but never believed). She’d walked straight into his trap without knowing, without understanding, without comprehending the fabrications behind walls and shields; hers was too lowered, armor gone, eyes shifting downward so she didn’t have to look at him and realize Roland was never with him. The pain and confusion flooded over her again, as it had done over the past fleeting seasons (why had he just left her there, in the hall of mirrors, trying to burn her way out of hell? Was he safe? Was he in danger?), pressing and gnawing at her mind until she focused solely on the peeking grass at her feet and the curl of Imogen’s white tails. Lena choked back a question - you never saw him then? - because she knew the answer. Instead, her vocals were granted, given again, sad and soft, dulcet and forlorn. "If he was here, I'm sure he would."
 
Her gaze crept back to his when she dared, when she tried to face the truth (aspirations damned, dashed), when she attempted to make peace with the despondency clinging to her lungs, her chest, her veins. It was just one more thorn, one more barb, lancing over her – to know Roland was still so far out of reach, gone, vanished, discarded into thin air. "You are welcome to stay, if you'd like."

the songbird