It was too late to flee – Imogen had made certain of that – so the Songbird made herself content at his awakening, at the curl of his mouth, at the rush of his voice, at the way her name simmered from his in a breathless reverie, like she was worthy. Her heart clamored, beat in a beautiful rhapsody through her chest, as he simply remained, staying upon their earth for more than a few mere hours, like a dream, like a vision, and she maneuvered closer to ensure he was a tangible thing and not another ghost sliding past her vision. She was nearly drunk on his sight, overcome with a sheer force of tenderness and warmth, compassion and love, and her grin wouldn’t leave her face, buoyant, light, airy, poised on gossamer wings and fairy dust. Then she became quite guilty of the unknown, of mysteries, of enigmas that scorched and blinded her mind, of curiosities that often drove her into further intrigue, because she didn’t know what else to do, what to say, where to go, giddy and overwhelmed, gentle and intertwined. She’d always known what it was like to love, because she’d spent nearly her entire life granting it to so many souls, but to have it returned was something foreign, unfamiliar, unnerving, but wild and possessive all at once. It seized her, this fervent, ardent interest and inquiry, unfurled and uncoiled along her bones until she seemed dazzled and spellbound, catching every coil and undulation of his muscles, trying to memorize every maneuvering feature, striving to maintain decorum when he wondered aloud about the circlet returning to its rightful place. The fey inclined forward, near enough to touch, maw extended, careful, intricate, not demanding, but only yearning, sculpting her way through rich gold and chestnut hues, over skin and brows, to breathe along the beautiful lines of his face, to speculate on the marvel of his sanctity, to revel and revere the adornments settled back to where they belonged. “I have my ways,” she laughed and teased, flickering her mouth, her lips, away once she’d secured and ensured the circlet was neatly in place, eyes focused entirely on his – laced with wonder – pondering over the means and measures she’d managed to abolish time and time again, soaking in the height and weight of his attentions, thirsting for it, relishing in it, drowned and awakened all at once, over and over again, silly and whimsical, capricious and torn. She felt garbed in the pinnacles of serenity, on the hallelujahs of tranquility, steeled and forged and conjured by enticements and glory, the unsung nuances of sanctuaries, of sanctums, adoration and devotion.
 
Her stare went to the plains of dust and the careless eaves of leaves still remaining in the stead of his cave, not yet cleaned in the spring frenzy, then back to him again, a smile still ignited and passionate over the frame of her lips and the dazzling sway of her beliefs. She didn’t even pay apprehension a thought as she settled into her story, mouth parted, frame close, everything greater still and more to come. “I met another mare, Raeden, wearing your circlet.” The Mender could recall the horror, the anguish, the coil of nerves and misgivings as she’d settled her gaze on the cream mare wearing his crown, the one she’d found for him, the one she’d pinpointed all of her hopes and dreams within, the one that carried her heart. She’d thought all manner of things, from Roland tossing it out to sea, in some other interlude where she’d been cast as worthless and a waste of time, and fearing the worst, that his bones had been laid out nearby, unseen, bleached and known only by the sun. “She’d found it by a stream.” Here her brow arched, still coy, still baiting, as if she craved to know the whole tale but didn’t demand it of him – if he wished to say, he’d tell, and if it was one more furtive, specious thing, perhaps she’d let it rest. I feel like you’ve just seen a ghost, she’d said, once searching the Songbird’s face for answers to one of her greatest fears, and here, here she could set her sights on him, see him alive, whole, real, loosen a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “I told her it belonged to a friend, and she returned it, hoping I’d find you again one day.” Then, if possible, her grin became brighter, resplendent, potent and powerful, a striking glorious thing reverberating the dawn, some holy light, basking in the tenderness of what had truly been promised - because for once her hope hadn’t been extinguished, hadn’t been cut, hadn’t been slashed and demolished. Faith had its place, and it coveted her being through the midnight toils and the twilight tribulations, bestowing her grandeur when she’d needed it the most – it was only fair to give credit where it was due. So she loved and cherished, proffered her convictions in the roots, in the soil, through the skies, stars, and the heavens, rendering it beautiful and stunning in corporeal form, as her eyes touched upon his again.