They maneuvered, one ivory fox, one sienna fey, into the lengths of the ancient catacombs, and the rush of memories clambered over her spine. There’d been the weeks spent in its confines, rooted and secured, protected and safeguarded, from those who’d been called friends (and in their place had been dangerous, treacherous, horrifying monsters, like dear, sweet Kahlua, who’d always grinned and smiled, then twisted around to bite her flesh). There’d been the hours tethered with Roland, glancing at lantern lights and fairy dust, taking in moments of strength and fortitude in little waterfalls and pools, dancing evenings and days away because it was better than silence, better than dismay. She avoided that particular room, not ready to face the resplendent glow again, afraid she’d be caught, trapped, once more. Perhaps there’d been stars in there too, and she’d just never noticed them.
Imogen puttered onward, ahead of her, turning and twisting around corners, remembering all the paths, all the trails, they’d traveled in the midst of disaster and ruin. As they rounded towards another aperture, faint, glimmering light guided their motions, the sound of a voice – a recognized pitch of vocals, sad and despondent – echoed along the cavern wall, bouncing, reverberating, intently into the Mender’s ears. She stopped for a moment, uncertain if she should be prying, if she should be listening, or if she should be wandering, wayfaring, further and further away, allow someone the privacy of their woes and melancholy. But the vocals were hauntingly familiar (in more ways than one), strong, then fading, a spring, a coil, of reverence and pain. I am afraid. Her gaze landed on Imogen for the smallest of seconds, and the kitsune’s eyes narrowed, cranium bowed, nodding, and they followed the light, airy crescendos, the beating heart of everything and everyone who’d ever lived (they were all afraid, in some form), peeking into the next room to see Tandavi, to see her companion, beasts she’d hadn’t seen in an eternity. "You've always been brave," she murmured before completely emerging into their midst, all rich veneer and lacquer, all petals and softness, might rippling on the warmth of her tenderness, of her generosity, of her swiftly, beating heart. Lena spoke again, "Tandavi," lowering her cranium on a note that sounded like reverence. "What are you afraid of?"
@Tandavi