and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The hot springs were a wondrous siren during the beginning intervals of Orangemoon, where the crispness of the autumn leaves churned and swiveled, when the colors altered from a lush green to a vibrant orange, yellow, or crimson, where the air became much more glacial, chilling, lacquering down to persistent bones and enduring marrow. She hadn’t intended to venture beyond the greenhouse after putting in several tufts and greens, rescued from the incoming frost, into its wares, but the serenading, warm puffs of air from beyond, smoking plumes, rising fronds of promised heat were enough to persuade her. The Songbird and her kitsune were too often carried away by duty, by promises, by convictions, creeds, oaths, and assurances to ever have time to merely recline, pass away the hours, the moments, the minutes, star and puzzle over the stars – but she took the opportunity when she had it, trying not to feel guilty in relinquishing the nature of her occupation for the slightest of seconds.
 
Imogen shook her head and chirped, being the first to launch into its confines from the embankment, pushing off from the side of its bubbling sanction with sturdy hind legs, splashing with a vicious chirrup – rising from beneath its foaming rivulets with soaked fur and emboldened spirit. Lena laughed from the fringes, smile forming at the thought of entering its confines, but still glanced out along the trees thereafter, expecting a summons, a beckoning, for her presence, to heal and nurture the wounded, the sick, and the tired.
 
But the kitsune scoffed, piercing through their bond with a defiant ditty. And what happens when you’re tired? The notion hadn’t ever truly occurred to the Songbird, who had spent so many days chasing after suns and galaxies, tending to the beasts of her homeland, ensuring survival season after season, eon after eon. She didn’t have an answer for the fox, who glinted and smirked at her with those all-knowing eyes, and gave in to the temptation, sighing as she entered, humming at the immediate pleasure along her muscles and skin. Just for a moment, she pulsed and promised towards the ivory vixen, one brow arched, lips curled in a grin. She could have melted into its lovely embrace, molded herself into the spring tenderness and forgotten what it was like to have been once forgotten, neglected, abandoned, forsaken – beatific wonder and beautiful potency sketched from the regal court – and everything seemed just, fair, and right with the world. Chaos may have brewed outside, but there, amidst the hymns and strains floating from her essence, naught could break her apart.

the songbird