and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The soft chill of autumn tugged, grasped, and whittled her away from the confines of their cavern at dawn, trapped her in a relishing melody, in a dulcet footfall of grace, poise, and then sweeping indulgence – caught between an elusive dance and silly mayhem. Imogen was the first to be snatched and snagged by the enticing wind, the easygoing, permeating chill, chirping at the fresh frost layered upon morning dew, racing against imaginary onslaughts, laughing and chirruping into the mercurial gales. The Songbird followed thereafter, until they were mere whispers on Orangemoon’s edges, the rise and the fall of gold, of crimson, of vibrant, beautiful, breathtaking pigments, the illustrious fringes of all the mesmerizing hues, until winter coated them in naught but white. But they matched well, blending into the courtyard of colors, drawn into the earthen element with sienna sinew and ivory sheen, giggling with fresh merriment because the world could still be good, could still be wonderful, could still be something more than chaos and imbalance – sometimes the resonance was keen, was rapture, was resplendence in the simply, archaic adventure of journeying into the midst of a first blush, the pinnacle of light, of sound, of stars and auroras. There was no rush, no zealous purpose, but simple joviality, delight, springing down into their limbs and out through their movements, moments firm, unyielding, granted and given to seraphs and their kin; and she gave voice to it through diligent hymns and graceful arias, flickering and flitting amidst the forest with the swallows and sparrows, with the hawks and the eagles, with the careful ambience of an unearthly sage.
 
This too, eventually, became more of an expedition than mere roaming – she plucked at a few herbs still left beneath shade and shadows of towering oaks and undaunted pine, wrapped their tiny leaves and fragile stems between her lips, broke a few sonnets and stanzas to gaze at strong, durable, remarkable babes of the grass. She praised them, lowered her lips to their unbending petals and noted their diligence, their perseverance, how they were true Basin inhabitants, marked for glory and endurance, fortitude and might, through hushed whispers of absolute reverence - and how they too would honor another citizen of the realm with their poise and dignity. Then the wind plotted their course, and the pair returned towards the greenhouse with their tender, gallant wares.
 
They must have spent a better part of the morning there, tending to the little plants, cleaning out fallen leaves, shifting one herb to another spot, and eyeing Mortuus Nox’s latest cultivations. Preparations were a necessity for the coming season, especially in the mountains, where the summits and clouds occasionally showed their citizens the depths of their power with storms and onslaughts, and the Mender paid this great heed as she shuffled along the dirt floor, gathering bits and pieces of blossoms. Imogen assisted for a lengthy while, before growing distracted with movement and motion from outside the glass halls.
 
A grand foxy grin emblazoned and embedded itself right across her vulpine features as she saw who was making their way towards the hothouse, and she swung her head towards Lena as she continued her careful ministrations, plucking away at some deadened plant life. The vixen thought about calling out to her, chirping that company was coming, that her favored Phantom was wandering into their midst, but the mischievous side of her sweet, valorous entity quickly abolished the notion – besides, it looked like he was trying to surprise. Who was she to ruin his calculations?
 
So she only chirruped when it was far too late and the crimson, gilded stag was already beneath the cloth aperture, lavender tucked between his mouth – and she held her laughter back (just barely), when the Songbird abruptly shot her head up from the soil, twisting an ear back, mane and forelock entangled with various leaves.
 
Lena looked less seraphic and more like a woodland sprite, straight from the forest, entrapped and measured by some glade nymph, one leaf stuck directly between her ears, and didn’t think to shake her head and release them from her tassels. Instead, she remained caught in between the unknown and the rush, the fondness, the intimacy of the stallion’s appearance, and settled for a soft, radiant blush and a beatific smile. “Roland! Come in, come in!” She quipped with singsong hallelujahs, turning away from the greenery, from the flowers, to grant him her full attention – entranced and beguiled all over again.
 
The femme stared at him for a little while, eternally enamored, before processing what she was supposed to be doing or saying; narrowing it down to either an emboldened motion or the strange, strangled sensation of what things used to be. They were far past the how are you stage, when she’d just tiptoe and dance on the surface and he’d do the same, and they’d sidle along until someone dared to press a little further. She’d dared, very much so, the last time they’d been alone, and the notion made her laugh, giggle, simply because she was so uncertain, so silly, over lines she’d crossed long before. After her momentary apprehension, she dove back into the unknown, pressing into the earth and waltzing towards him, placing her lips against his cheek in a fond greeting, in a fanciful salutation, before her eyes focused on the parcel of purple enfolded along his teeth. Curiosity sang a sweet tune, flickered along her gaze as the honeyed remnants riveted back to him. “What have you been up to?”

the songbird

and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The Songbird likely could have stayed right there for an eternity, tucked between his chest and mouth, radiant, warm, home - casting everything aside and settling for everlasting devotion. She blinked and he was still there, no dream, no mirage, no ghost, and she lifted her cheek, like a bowstring, loosened and pliant, as he bent and curved along her skin, giggling, hovering in a state of grace and silliness. Like satin, like fairy wings, like gossamer tendrils, the notions, the sentiments, the blessings scattered along the sweetened denizens, and she almost forgot they were contained within glass walls, sliding her eyes closed, enjoying the attention as he tucked the lavender blossoms along her curls, a softened sigh escaping her lips, then gracefully extending them to his throat, listening to him chuckle, to his laugh. It was a mesmerizing sort of thing too, drew her back in before she’d even think of escaping, the sort of sound that had followed her through valleys and over hillsides, that had waltzed beside her on moonlit evenings, that had dazzled and spellbound and eclipsed over her mind; a soothing, fluid balm, a kiss without touch. She opened her eyes to find him laughing at her though, all play fair in love and war, pressing his phantom rights into the declaration, sly, rarely forthright, not dipping into her curious, inquisitive onslaughts. The little nymph pretended then too, mockingly furrowed her brows and looked away, past the reflecting glass and wool veneer, trying not to forge another round of laughter, at ease, calm, composed, serenading the venue with her affection and endearments. “What a shame. I guess I won’t share what I’ve been doing either,” she sighed, she shrugged, she snorted, as if it was simply not to be, held a whimsical, mercurial pretense they all knew and recognized as impishly forced, turning her gaze to Imogen with a mischievous glow, setting her sights subtly on the newly established collar layered around the kitsune’s neck.
 
“Thank you,” she proffered instead, indicating the flower and its lacquered petals, its soft, dulcet scent, its calming exterior – and almost asked where he’d gotten it, where he’d found it amongst the dying fronds and exhale of autumn. She didn’t quite understand his next statement though, and her confusion seemed to mark a fair share of giggles from Imogen’s corner. Was he referencing the Spark God’s feather, still sizzling, still sparking, still energized, wrapped in the loosened tendrils, further down her nape? Her head tilted, and she could hear the sound of some crinkling, distinct, like that of dried, forgotten leaves, when one stepped upon the forest floor around this time of year, but didn’t quite fathom the nature, the silliness, the great, grand, jocular moment. Imogen continued giggling in her wild chirps, the laughter becoming a fanciful uproar, and Lena stood there, very perplexed, and growing all the more concerned, stature suddenly rigid, taut, straight as an arrow. What on earth? She inquired to the ivory kitsune, but the little vixen had completely lost it by then, and the only sense the Mender could find in the moment was to merely compliment him on his gift, turning in refinement, in grace, in all the poise one could muster when they were adorned with crinkling fronds and curling leaf-blades. “I’m sure it overshadows them,” she mustered with a potent, reverent smile, still ridiculously baffled.

the songbird

Beautiful quote goes right here!
Lena is just love boop boop

Innocent duplicity circled over her head, bounded, leaped, chased, and cavorted with the wily fox and her gilded phantom – and she was all arched brows, speculation, a fairy without her own tricks and deceptions. It inspired laughter, a pervading, silly tone circulating, echoing, lingering (Imogen’s too, a crescendo of merriment and delight) through the glass walls, skirting and polishing the hothouse flowers, the accompanying herbs, and she was still unaware of the joke. The nymph didn’t flare apart in frustration though, presumed everything would be revealed in time, and she wouldn’t be such a large, massive fool – though for a few moments she thought about pleading with Imogen so she might be in on the fanciful airs, but as her eyes swept back over to Roland’s, and his low chuckle curled through her chest, she supposed it didn’t matter. She could listen to the deep tones of his amusement for days on end, smiled at the notion of it, light and carefree, and only lightly blushed when he came to her rescue (a dotting of pink on her cheeks, dulcet, soft, a glimmer of adoration). A few leaves were liberated from her tassels, where they’d been stuck and knotted, gnarled and twisted, from her hours spent amidst floral arrangements and tidying – she stared at them as he set their lithe, little souls free, spinning and twirling, decaying on their fringes, until they came to rest along the dirt floor. “Not my best, I’m afraid,” and she laughed too, allowed the joviality to soak up the remains of her sprite adornments, glancing at their dying wares while he complimented her – and she thought about giggling those away too (because she knew she was a bit plain, a speckle of honey and sienna in an empire full of glowing hues and vibrant colors, meant for earth elements instead of fire and brimstone). She could’ve even offered a compliment to his own looks – handsome and roguish, a feast for her eyes, but she was sure he was aware of his own complimentary features (the twinkle of his blue stare, the nearly-smug grin, the gilded muscles, a lean, elegant form), and bit her tongue from giving it voice. The Songbird could keep some things to herself – for now.
 
The Mender carried on with another wave of giggles again at her prior thoughts, lifting her lips to caress his maw with a light stroke, a tender kiss, listening, enjoying the way his voice curled along her ears. Her grin grew even wider when she’d struck some form of gold, because he offered a trade, and it was far more than she’d ever received before. They’d been compatriots of secrets and deceptions for a long time now – it was much more familiar for her to shelter her feelings, her notions, her thoughts, her sentiments; she held a preference for specious discoveries and enigmatic twists. Roland was much of the same, she surmounted and perceived, alike in the way he conducted himself, kept the world private, unexposed. Perhaps the only time she could ever recall imparting any of her convictions and confidences was when he’d reappeared – because she’d been afraid he’d drift away again, and she never would’ve been able to reveal on what had rested, built, and crooned in her essence for so long now. This moment was not so nearly fraught with peril, heartache, or trivialities, but she took the time to appreciate it for what it was worth – an instance where they could both be a little more open, a little less fragmented. “It must be a fair trade,” the Mender conceded, winking, glancing to Imogen (who’d since muffled her chirps, amusement still readily apparent across that cunning, foxy grin), and sauntering past (sliding a delicate, airy touch along his spine with her lips), ducking beneath the fine, woven cloth of the greenhouse aperture. “Mine will be best displayed outside,” was the only hint granted, the silly depths of her smile crinkling to an infinite, impish quality before she was taken back out into the autumn depths.

the songbird

and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

He followed her, like always, no matter her schemes, her silliness, her whimsical fancies; and she almost had to wonder why, but didn’t give it voice, didn’t give it resonance, because the notion of faith, of dedication, of trust and devotion still reverberated through her heart, through her soul. If he held the same amount for her as she did for him, then they were a blessed pair, and she kept the notion to herself, muffling a laugh between her teeth and tongue, keeping the air of mystery, the extortion of enigmas aloft, free, unwinding in the air, arching her brows and glancing at him over her shoulder as they walked to a safer clearing. A part of her mischief, impish contortions beckoned and pondered over what he thought she’d managed to concoct, if he feared, if he cheered, if he was eager to chide or sigh; she’d flirted with danger too many times in the past, placing her essence, her frame, her figure right into the pathway of treachery without the slightest of hesitation (and sometimes, even with apprehension, tied together with consternation and nerves, then throwing herself into the flames anyway). But it’d always been for something; a quest, a sojourn, a sentiment meant for the greater good – this current one had been presented to her by fairies and blood falls, then charmed by a God himself, and she carried it carefully, resolutely, down into the barest regions of her virtue, of her valor, so they beat on the same wavelength, all sparks and aspirations.
 
Imogen followed her with the grace, poise, and dignity of a cunning little creature, and sat nobly, proudly, when they finally ceased movement and motion, as the Songbird turned back towards the gilded phantom and smiled. The ivory kitsune only chirped once, a beckoning call of some otherworldly siren, while Lena whispered, a hushed reverence, a twinkle in her eye, in her grin, in her eager, fervent delight. “Just watch,” she murmured, and with a rush of a strain, an aria, as all her poems, refrains, and verses seemed to begin, the tiny collar resting along the vixen’s nape detached itself –
 
And spun into a shield, crackling, sizzling, snapping with wondrous electricity, flickering to the ground with a spinning ambition until Lena seized it in her mouth by the cleverly-adorned handle; a circular contortion of metal and protection, meant to defend, meant to guard, meant to defy those who yearned to wrong. She held it within her lips, it felt lighter than air, than the wind, than the breeze, and maneuvered forward, pressing closer until she stood before the golden stag, beaming, just as wild and savage and beautiful as the forged defense. She managed to hum around the grip, before placing it down by her daggers, allowing it to flash, twinkle, and flare around her feet. “I came across a piece of the Sentinel’s metal that had fallen,” and here the nymph gestured to the distorted wardens in the distance, splintering and rusting apart. “Oddly enough,” she continued, and like so many stories surrounding Helovia it was anchored amidst invocations and deities, bowing mortals, incomprehensible reasons and vows, “I then met a fairy within the Blood Falls, who urged me to seek out our patron God. He enchanted the portion for me.” Her eyes fell to the glinting ware and its gleaming surface, ornamented by power and promises, oaths and assurances. Then, quickly, swiftly, they were riveted back to his, awaiting his valid, forthright opinion with one more incandescent smile. “What do you think?”
 
Thereafter, to assure she was still fully aware of their miniature trade, the grin manifested back into its pixie counterparts - nothing forgotten. “Your turn!”

the songbird