They hastened over spring air and songbird delight, trying to become something they no longer felt. The pair roamed as wayfaring fractures of a greater good, desperate for virtue, for solace, for sanctuary against the rippling hands of fate and ill fortune, wondering when it was that the latter always favored the bold. The sienna maiden, with her honeysuckle dreams and her daffodil heart, bordered the trenches of melted ice and chiseled rocks, rummaging past folded lines of old and new soil, digging for another passage to promised land, to blessed bits of flora and fauna. When she found some pieces of wealth, she shuffled and roamed closer to the healers’ cave, placing them in the back to dry, collecting nuggets of sagacity and tenacity, things she always wanted, always craved, but ultimately couldn’t grasp – before venturing back out into the open again, just as same as before, diversion after diversion, motion after motion.

On the third interval, they traversed along another route, bordering past lakes and springs, watching the gentle rise and fall of steam and delusion, rekindling the ways of hope and the armor of yielding. They breathed as one, fox and Songbird, kindling and incensing the runes of the past and the follies of the future, shaking their head from time to time or matching bird tunes; casting one aria after another until they all became requiems or summer sonnets. Eventually, the sun faded away into bursts of clouds and spring promises of showers, grows convictions from blossoms and blooms, but neither turned away. The femme, the nymph, the fairy, in fact, lifted her crown to the sky and tasted the first speckle of drops upon her mouth, laughing at how the earth changed so rapidly, and how she’d never be able to keep up with its constant shifts and turns. Her head reclined, shook, the droplets cascading down her face, and the singsong trills and twirls emerged from her mouth again, if only to distract her from the harsh conjectures of life.

Then, she saw her, ivory and gray on a backdrop of dull blue. Imogen chirped to the fae on the intricacies of familiarity, but Lena stared, noticing, pondering, studying as they drew closer and closer, inclining towards the embankment, the sand, the shoal, the ripples of the lake and its chosen inhabitant. She knew Tangere well – they were fellow healers, called and crafted and sculpted for the same vocation of saving lives and mending broken bones (incapable of assuaging their own, of course, as if it were a given that they too would be as fractured and splintered). They’d assisted each other time and time before, either through gathering herbs or scraping up the framework for the incoming greenhouse, support through endless struggles.

But she’d never glimpsed upon her like this – beaten, soaked, scarred, bludgeoned by fire and brimstone. The sylph didn’t ask, didn’t inquire, as to how she’d received the shocking wounds – she rarely did to anyone or anything, because there was no sense in reliving horrors, terrors, and treachery. Instead, she merely stood before her, a smile, a grin, on the wilds of the unknown. “Goodness. Let's see what we can do for you.” she proffered, shaking her cranium again at the ridiculousness of the matter, and then closing her eyes, entangling the heart of her invocations.

They rushed, sublime and gilded and perfect all at once – intertwining and audacious, splendid and effervescent. They coiled and rippled over the layers of depraved skin and rattled scars, stitching together barbaric seams and open, bleeding, maimed lacerations, treating each with radiant, coaxing enticements, searing flesh and bone back together, marrow and sinew over sinuous designs. She sang again too, as if the mellifluous tunes were needed for something to hold onto, a tether, a line, so neither sank into hysteria or haunting, devilish poignancy. Her ditties and strains were beautiful and melodious, blending into the misty, foggy air like they belonged to the finer droplets and gentle symphonies, composing an orchestra for only Tangere and her white raven. When it was all over, magic gleaming and flowing back into its hours, its minutes, its seconds and snippets of carefully mastered time, the fairy’s eyes reopened, the tender grin there again. “Do you feel better?”

She’d always proffered sanctuary – a temple, a shrine, unfettered and never ruined by the daunting, haunting traps of life. Her body, her frame, her figure, was a tempest of absolution and devotion, bending to song, to snippets of time, to unwavering moments of power and rest – the soothing, assuaging presses of hours spun by sonnets, of minutes spun by arias, of golden, waxing moments sprung from lips and gentle, harmonious reverence. She’d always offered tranquility for those who yearned to listen, the kind, sweeping acts of generosity and serenity, a dance among blossoms instead of thorns, a waltz amidst flowers instead of nettles, a glowing, beautiful serenade instead of stinging barbs. When they failed to listen, she sang anyway, flourishing and thriving beneath the rapture, the reverie, of life and freedom, ebullient and cordial, extending each rampart its own aria, pose, and prose. Unbound from pain, from torment, from those damning shackles, Lena watched and witnessed her friend shift back into the light – gone were massive lacerations, gone were follies of war or skirmishes, gone were patches of open wounds – and there, in its place, was Tangere, alive and whole once more. A ghostly sigh of relief poured through her fey lungs without a second thought, smile transfiguring into holy reverence and wholesome guidance from the powers that be. “You’re very welcome,” she granted, she gave, over and over again (and didn’t everyone know that she would?); compassion and cordiality, guidance and comfort, remained her purpose, her drive, her aspirations and means. Her head tilted, grin growing as raven and unicorn basked in the glow of healing, of no more claws rasping, of spring showers cascading in warm hues, of spirits coming to rest.
 
The Songbird never asked about the wounds and how they were acquired, didn’t peel into the layers and lacquer of hardships; they were not her stories to whittle, not her queries to sculpt. If Tangere deigned them adequate to share, then Lena had no doubts she’d express them into the sky, the horizon, the depths of the valley – but now seemed hardly the time to revisit harpoons, lances, and swords. Her eyes peeled away for the smallest of moments, staring across at the dampening clouds and the scoured sunlight, breathing one more relieved ounce of air, content and glad her friend was safe from another second of harm or pain. They lingered back upon the silvern femme thereafter, examining anything she’d missed (the tail she was sorry for; it didn’t seem to want to grow again, all wisps and curls and fronds, as if newly born and belonging to broomsticks or paintbrushes), beseeching another slip of her vocals, melodious and careful. “You can always find me if you require any aid at all,” she laughed, she winked, she played with the fervency, like the stroking of time, like the basking of musical healing was naught, naught at all but the soft, dulcet clamor of wind and rain, naught at all but the time stolen, required, to assist a friend.

The fairy paid no mind to the rain, it was natural and necessary; dwelling in it as if it were a long lost friend or a part of her natural elements, coasting on soft air and powdered droplets. Her breaths were easy and flickering along the showers, floating on light filaments and radiant bliss, a touch of finery between mountains and caverns, tainted features and rapturous virtues. The honeyed, amber quality of her stare peeked along clouds and her lips curled back into a smile, wondering if the spring blossoms would reach their peak, if Tangere’s former lacerations would ache from the incoming storm, if it would’ve put out the fire coiled along her heart. Thunder rumbled and growled, and she remained still, poised and ready, ardent and eager for whatever life threw at them, restless for more endeavors, for more occupations than to stay idle, listless, and languid, bestowing gifts to ease torment, miseries, and woes. Instead of fleeing into the woods, hills, or catacombs, she remained by the silver mare’s side, pervading each and every transgression, dilemma, or flaw, with a tiny speck of beneficence, wondering if one day the whole world would be full of kindness and compassion, instead of belligerence and menace. Her ears flicked at the other mare’s words, at the glistening rays of peace and repose, simply dwelling in the reverie of tranquility – where vows didn’t break, where chaos didn’t reign, where terror wasn’t exploited. There was no treachery layered amidst their morals, no judgment cast, no die thrown; just a wondrous sort of contentment. She nearly asked Tangere about so many things, like how to mend a broken heart, how to chase after stars instead of wonder what went wrong, how to embrace the past but look forward to the future…but none of these things came out. The Songbird didn’t want to disrupt the intervals of radiance, the grandeur of the present, and simply sighed, grinning back all the while. “I believe the greenhouse will be built soon,” she said instead, allowing her gaze to settle back on the other mare, whom had been an orchestrator of the project. “I’m excited to think of all the growth we’ll have over the winter, and how many more we can help.” The maiden paused thereafter, a train of thought floating and trailing along her sentiments, before being courted and held aloft, mellifluous and curious. “I haven’t gathered any in such a long time. Would you like to come with me?”