Their compositions were perfected on the swell of the surf and the rising of the tide; Lena strung together a glorious hallelujah, a mighty ditty, as sand met rivulets, as gulls cried and sang. Her eyes weren’t cast upon the shore, rocks, or pebbles, where she’d nearly been burned alive, but riveted and tasked along the endless horizon, the smoldering Tallsun beams, or the eternal bliss of another day on earth. She looked for shells, some coated in ivory sheen or pale, pink lacquer, then laughed and played with Imogen, running in wild exuberance down the shoreline, chasing after one another until her sides hurt from merriment and the scorching heat. It was all a wondrous distraction, a time and place without pain, without misery, without toiling reminders of nothingness and ruin – if everyone drifted away from her, then she’d make due with what she had: serenity, tranquility, and composure. The nymph knew determination and perseverance, vices and virtues, how castles fell and empires tumbled, how friends disappeared through fog, mist, and the unknown, how eventually they would return, changed, but still together, still whole. She’d simply be strong for them in the interim: a blaze of glory and fire, sanctuary and beneficence, charms and sonnets. She’d live for the moments, for the days, for the weeks and months, seasons and cycles, in between meetings and goodbyes. Her heart wouldn’t break, yield, or dampen any longer – and at such a sentiment, dear little Imogen nodded in affirmation, and they darted again.
 
Her strides were not built on savage decrees, but on dulcet, butterfly exposition, a soft toil in the sand, digging in partial imprints lifted soon thereafter by the entangled waves; but she liked to think they made their marks as they crossed and floated, as they dipped and swerved, token memories of jubilance and finery. For some part they danced, twirled and waltzed, a partner for one another, one giggling, the other chirping, and only when Lena had whirled into another ardent turn, wheeling around and around until her fairy steps had touched the ocean and caressed the cool essence, did she notice another being enshrouded by the current. Her breath slowed for a few vigilant seconds, eyes narrowed, studying the shape, the painted figure, the length of wings and a tiny sprout of an owl nearby…and all at once it clicked on a length of rhapsody, on a collected wisp of ambience, kindness, and compassion. “Alysanne!” She harked along the embankment, then immediately thread her way along the shoal, casting her strong limbs into the surf and adoring the cool effects of droplets crashing against her dampened coat – chasing after friends instead of stars or thieves, and it was better that way.
 
It felt like a lifetime since she’d glimpsed upon her, but what a wondrous thing despite their long absence! A smile cast along her features and never waned, enveloping and wide, beautiful and illustrious, glowing like the sun, like the moon, like the songs filling and pulsing through her heart. She dipped her head towards the owl, not daring to leave him out of the attention. “Hemlock! It's so good to see you!” Imogen followed in good pace, chirruping her hellos and dipping her tails in the approaching waves. Lena, now focused entirely on Alysanne, noted the laceration, deep, menacing, swollen, along the mare’s side, and nearly dared to ask how she’d received such a thing (and why wasn’t it mended? Why was it still torn, infected and malicious, increasing pain and torment for its holder?). Her smile didn’t retract, and she pretended not to have seen it at all, poised and prosed, delighted and enraptured, forgoing curiosities for enchantment and wonder. Her question was on a light, whimsical refrain, eternal reveries and mellifluous delights, serenading the slashed creature. “How have you been?”

They were going to play the same game, and she knew it well. The Songbird had managed to entangle and thread her way through the pretenses, through the ire, through the fire and smoke for most of her life; never divulging secrets, never scaling past walls, never daring to peek over fortifications to see if the coast was clear, never telling anyone or anything what hurt the most. The fairy wondered how far they’d have to prove that they were all right and whole, forgoing notions that those who mended were sometimes the ones who required healing the most. Tossing her elegance, her smile, into the scenery, she delved and dived into her role immediately, crafting a fairy whimsy, a fey essence, while her curiosity brewed and curled. Imogen chirped back at Hemlock and Lena serenaded the hoots with gleeful melodies and warm sentiments, pretending she didn’t dare sneak a peek at the infected flesh riddling Alysanne’s hide, mauling the once-perfected tones of ivory and onyx. All lightness and air, all silliness and fronds, all dulcet whims and mercurial endeavors, she wondered, she listened, she recited her lines, word for word, indulgence for indulgence, expressing amusement when all she truly did was worry about her winged companion, the lacerations she didn’t deserve, the pain she didn’t earn.
 
Oh, I’ve been alright, she answered, and Lena took back the notion to swing her head and argue the point. She fought the lie with compassion, with tenderness, with the sun’s reverent caress and the cool, idle strokes of the ocean, honeyed hums, and ignited strength, wanting so desperately to pull on the threads of time and whittle away at the blighted hole clawing at the pegasus’s flesh. Would she care if her whispers became songs, sonnets, mellifluous art renewing over tirades and tribulations? Or would that be going too far, breeching over ramparts and citadels, reaching out to where she didn’t belong, because if Alysanne wanted her to know, she would’ve told her? How much of her grin was forced beyond the pain and torment? How much misery emboldened her to slip into lines and dictations, into stages and grace? “I’m glad you’re well,” she bestowed, charming and effervescent, reverent and rapturous, searching for an indication that she could heal her friend’s broken, rattled essence before it consumed her.
 
Then, it was the Time Mender’s turn to invent deceptions and falsehoods; she’d never tell her of Roland disappearing, of thieves becoming ghosts, of staring out into the abyss and not knowing, not understanding, who she was anymore – how much she missed her strength, her radiance, on days that never seemed to end. Everything was etched and sketched on hearts and lace, on taffeta and pearls, on delicacy and strains, as if one more weighted, blunt edge would send it all falling back into its infernal abyss, and she’d be lost again. “I’ve been fine.” Fine covered all the bases, from forgotten to deluded, from charmed to abandoned, from reverent to desolate, isolated, and shambled. Neither, it seemed, dared to touch upon what was right in front of them, but too gentle, too afraid, on what would truly harm the other. So the seraph continued to coast on her thin, meager threads, waiting for the string to fray. “We’ve begun building a greenhouse. Your Glaziers are very talented.”

  Hiding sentiments, notions, and subterfuge had always been her specialty. It wasn’t done out of malice, spite, condemnation, or any other wretched thing, but protection and safeguarding for herself. There were too many weaknesses, too many open wounds, too many pitfalls and stumbling, faltering motions made by her essence, and she’d always presumed the world didn’t need to know. Her smiles would stretch into gallant, intrepid veneers, and her features would render her complete and whole, and her heart would crack and split between each lie, each refrain; she was certain, eventually, there wouldn’t be anything left of her but sonnets, fairy tales, and all the locked up secrets she’d left behind. One day she’d be just a pile of notes and string, lace and Chantilly, songs and sorrows, remembered for her hymns and hallelujahs, and the broken, idle laments she’d forgotten to tell anyone. It wasn’t a fine life to lead, but it had served her decently in the seasons past, when curious eyes peeked into hers and she could see the wonder, the studying, the speculation over who she was and how she’d come to be – and she’d show them, waltz beneath the sun, be kissed by the rain, spin dirges and requiems into mellifluous whims and assuaging balms, and then they’d soon be diverted, away, away, and away from what concocted and carved the careful, composed Songbird, full of love even when it was never given back to her. Necessity kept her closed and veiled, shrouded in enigmas and mysteries, painted in simplicity, coated in barbarity, drifting on the wind, along shells and shores, across tempests and forests.
 
But her heart ached again, to watch, to listen, to Alysanne do the same exact thing.
 
It was a measure of hypocrisy, she knew, to shake her head at the Pegasus femme for concealing truths and concocting deflections, deviations, and divergences. But because she recited the same lines, orchestrated the same characters, the Mender understood, comprehended, the situation, the surrounding circumstances far better than most. So while they danced around the issue, as they both pretended her leg wasn’t infected, that it hadn’t been properly attended, that a healer should have known better and done something about the gaping laceration, it was Hemlock who finally had enough.
 
He hooted at her, flew at the mangled tissue, the noxious sinew, and Lena couldn’t keep it in any longer. She bowed her head towards the owl first, an apology for allowing the production to continue, then Alysanne, who was a friend, who was a companion, who shouldn’t have been left to fester, wither, and decay. The boldness, the bravery, the stalwart portion of her took over, brows furrowed, smile drawn into a thin line. “Aly,” she uttered, a careful whisper as she drove further into the waves, dipped her crown beneath feathers and plumes, and examined the feral slash (by a horn, no doubt, she’d seen enough of the same sort after her brethren sparred). “What happened?” The fey who rarely pried, because she’d always been afraid someone else would do the same to her, lifted her honeyed, beatific gaze towards her kindred spirit, and sighed, soft and dulcet, calm and reflective. “Why haven’t you healed it?” Maybe she’d been too tired, too fatigued, to do it herself? Perhaps she’d seen to assist others in her herd first, and hadn’t had enough energy to stitch her own. “Would you like me to?”

  It hurt to see a friend in pain, and to remain incapable of doing anything. The truth came out on sighs and tears, on quests and failures, on dreams coming to fruition, but not without a vindictive price. The nymph listened, patient and kind, compassionate and understanding, because lord, she’d done the same thing before. She’d wanted and craved so much to protect, to shield, those she loved and cherished, and when the brutality was real, was tangible, thick and woven across her hide, the torment and agony had mottled any satisfaction. Her lesson had been valuable, tarnishing those beloved dreams – the pain had been so intense, immense, barbaric, and the only time she’d ever turned those sanguine songs into savagery had been upon monsters and fallen Gods. She hadn’t dared drum up the nefarious notes again. “I did the same thing once,” the maiden smiled, inching closer, daring to inspect the wound further, the deep, menacing laceration, the barbaric edges raised and rotting – and she held a sense of irritation for the Goddess who’d done this to her companion, who’d never deserved any misery set upon her. “I asked for a quest from the Sun God,” she continued, careful not to sing, but craving the melodies, the mellifluousness, to watch the infection flicker and be no more – gone, vanished, and quiet, tucked back into ruthless intentions. “I wanted to protect everyone in the Basin, so I yearned for the ability to harness fire.” Her head rose, honeyed eyes glancing into Alysanne’s, notching a small, thin smile across her lips, as if to spread awareness of her foolishness, that the painted Pegasus was not alone in her pursuits – that all they’d ever done was try to help others, and somehow, someway, they’d always been blighted in the process. “To ensure I understood the depths of my request, I had to be burned.”
 
She shook her head, tossing away those indignant indulgences, when all she remembered was the taste, the scorching, the smoldering of fire surrounding her, intending to harm Roland, throwing herself in front of him so not one single ember seethed across his skin; it’d been reckless and selfish, terrifying and treacherous. It shouldn’t have been that way for Alysanne, who was tender and good, warm and delightful, a piece of selflessness in a world so stained and tarnished by ruthless deeds and callous pursuits. Why her? Because she’d wanted to do some good across realms that couldn’t remember the last time someone committed an act out of the reverie, rapture, and beneficence settled in their hearts? “It didn’t take me long to comprehend.” The Songbird made no show of the scars crisscrossed along her back, folded under sienna hair, an ode to moments so stupid, so ridiculous, that she tried never give them voice (but to Atlas, but to Alysanne, because the former understood and the latter lived it – needed to know she was here with her, devout and sacred, blemished and altered just like her). Imogen sighed between their bond, not wishing to revisit the notions again.
 
“An infection will take some time to heal, though you had the right notion in coming to the sea.” The salt would be a natural curative, if she could stand the pain of its alms. Her stare was riveted back upon the sweet femme’s face, and a gentle sigh flowed through her. She felt utterly useless. “If you heal it, you will have to gain a new wound in its place. You’ll have to go through this all over again.” Her eyes were a bridge of earnestness and helpless dreams, craving so many things and not permitted to wield any of them – so she applied truths, continued the same course as before. “You’re strong. I think you can overcome this.” Gently, she proffered a shoulder towards the black and white ridges of Alysanne’s own figure, offering the only support and comfort she could bestow, especially as each wave curled over her wound. “You’ll show the Moon Goddess exactly what you’re made of.”