08-07-2017, 09:17 PM
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Lena had refined the art of waiting. Her patience was a valuable virtue, her forbearance, her fortitude, her endurance an infinite reverence, a breathless wonder, a careful brushstroke of passing hands and thwarting time. The seraph might have been carved from perseverance, the sweeping, idle caresses of a patient, dedicated craftsman; his last oeuvre. Hopes and dreams, wonders and whimsies, buoyed the breathless abandon of wandering, of presiding, of maintaining repose when the worst was promised. It was all she’d ever known since the day of her birth, how she’d survived, how she’d calculated, how she’d refined kindness, compassion, and beneficence when other realms, other forms, other beings chose to malign and ruin. She preferred healing, mending, standing still, watching, observing, when the empires threatened to turn asunder, so she’d have a moment, a chance, an opportunity to extend her well wishes, her wisdom, her incantations, her strength, towards those who needed it. She couldn’t be taken over by impulse, by audacity – and it was why she willed herself not to fret, not to worry, not to collapse in apprehension when a familiar face had yet to show themselves amidst the abyss. She’d anticipated his return before. She could do it again. But she still took to patrolling the edges of mist and fog, peering into the void, yearning to see gold instead of black, always black (Stygian and sable, the deepest of perils and treacheries, the stretch of annihilation, what a consignment to oblivion must’ve looked like). It was the same, day after day, hour after hour: a chasm opening to reveal others, strangers or known souls, thrown and tossed into the unknown. But they were never Roland, and despite the tug at her soul, the interloping of bestial, barbaric things, the sheer, desperate notion of what could have happened to him, she remained in serenity, in tranquility, in equilibrium – going back to what she understood best (because it was a form of rebellion, and she wouldn’t let this place consume her, devour her, control her). Sometimes as they, for she was never alone, traced and chased over the eerie, eldritch foundations she’d murmur to Imogen: today, he’ll come today with a small smile and stalwart gaze, staring out over the horizon and wishing him to appear from thin air. Other days she’d offer the ivory kitsune a simple excuse, a reason for him to still be gone, never remarking on the smoke and fumes, the embers and death, stinging the back of her mind. Maybe he landed elsewhere, in some other land? She’d sing, she’d chant, she’d proffer, and Imogen would just nod, obliging her in the only way she could. Today she tried not to be frustrated, vexed, irritated that there were more ghosts loitering here than tangible, corporeal beings. She tried not to crumble bit by bit, ponder into treacherous depths, or stick herself in the depths of the shadows, turn her head, or give in. The Songbird’s eyes were on the horizon when colors blossomed, bloomed, vibrated, then collapsed into the feral darkness, her breath a sudden inhale, a gasp, and her movements abrupt, swift, keen, hope heaving in her chest as she took and stole over the ground, following, following, following to the ends of the earth. The healer didn’t care about the rain assaulting her pelt, her eyes, her ears – she was blistering motion and endless conviction, crooned from the flames, from the embers, from the stoking of beguiling affection – wishes, dreams, and aspirations curling from her rushing form, her ardent figure. Then, through the fog, through the mist, through the whirl of smoke and fallen hues, she saw him - real, tangible, solid, definite, a manifestation of everything she’d ever wanted or craved. In an instant, she shouted his name (it sounded like bells and sonnets, stanzas and warmth, a declaration of love and affection in a blessing of syllables). “Roland!” Something greater, more profound, came with her essence, bounding from the pockets of the abyss, reaching out, slowing only so she didn’t collide – and throwing her neck over his, a reverberating embrace. The mender didn’t even pretend, didn’t even try, to hide her happiness, her tears, her ebullience, shaking all the while, laughing in the midst of her calm, her elation, her relief, pushing a zealous breath from her lungs, from her mouth, from her lips, with the brightest grin hidden in his mane. “You made it.” |
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It was the same and not – because there’d always been patterns to their moments, to their occasions, to the way they’d lived and faltered. She wished for it to be winter, constant, unbendable winter, near her gardens, beneath the rise of the mountains and the sullen, chilling wind, where her breath would curl around his red mane and she could laugh at the whimsical art of it; the movements, the motions, the soft, cordial layers to their ghosts and refrains. Instead, for all her light, they were enclosed in warped, discordant darkness, rain and pestilence – and still, she didn’t care, because he was here, safe, whole, and for now, that was enough (it’d have to be – there was no other choice, no other alternative). She wished for things that couldn’t be, for moments sprinkled in time that had yet to fissure, that she could lead him to a new home, a new land, a new kingdom, shelter from the storm, from the peril, from the agony of what this void proffered and preferred. The Mender emboldened her smiles, her virtues, her arts instead, slid her grin into his hide, touched over the crimson and golden fringe, delighted in what she had in these minute moments, embraced the present because she’d always lingered in the past. “I’m okay,” she whispered back, and it was partially true, for she hadn’t had any occasion to assess her worth, her entity, her being until now – every instance had seemed sparked and incensed by calamity, by drama, by the feral, bewitching unknown. Even now the earth seemed to rumble with intrigue and vitriol, just enough poison and temptation to leave the world unhinged and uncertain, so she pressed herself further into him, pulsed her strength, her potency, her power into a vibrant, gilded hum, beautiful refrains that ensured she was all right – laced and layered them down into the wounds scattered along his frame. Imogen sauntered forth two, wrapped a few tails around limbs and feet, aching to feel the few, scarce, timeless chances of indulgence, to believe in sanctity when none could be found. “Are you?” The Songbird echoed, her eyes drifting over the scrapes and lacerations, loosening the hold she had on him begrudgingly to take in his entire frame, to view him away from shadow and sable. He wasn’t a ghost: alive, breathing, not a being stolen and replaced, positioned as a demonic puppet, another masquerade by the Rift or Kisamoa’s hand. Then she bent and flowed into him again on the last thought, pressed her maw into the juncture of his cheek and nape, and just stayed, still, memorizing the lines and scents, the strokes and sketches, an outline of love and compassion. It’d been so fleeting, so rare here, and it almost made her laugh, made her cry, made her explode in sheer happiness – but she maintained her calm composure, merely reaching out for him because that was all she had left to do. The Songbird perfected the notes of his voice too, the pitch, the intonations, the tones, committed them to anything and everything, as he whispered, as he craved to know about this horrific empire they’d been stranded within. She was disappointed that she had so little to offer – a dulcet murmur of her own, smile dipping, falling away along his neck, pushed down to his throat. “We’re in the Rift.” There were too many lands to name, too many abysses to recall, some fragmented and awful, some once blessings of Helovia and squandered into further hell zones. He’d see it all for himself: the riddles, the speciousness, and the gallows (and where was the delight, the joy, she yearned to ask the world, but knew she’d receive no reply). Her voice, trying to find hope and salvation in the murky rain, in the rolling fog, could barely enlighten him any further – there were too many vacuities, pits, and pendulums. “We’ve all scattered, but there are still quite a few from the Basin here.” But when she’d roamed along Kaos’ awful schemes and cataclysms, the number had seemed even less – and in the back of her mind, she persisted that they hadn’t been foolish enough to wander into the webs, the traps, and the lies again. |
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She wished for a multitude of things in those few, precious moments – somehow, someway, the collapse and fall of Helovia, the monstrous beckoning of the Rift, hadn’t curtailed her ability to dream (quietly, beneath the shadows instead of the stars). The most vivid ambition was to see them in a world not shrouded in deceit, back in the familiarity of winter’s touch, or merely coasting along the streams, the mountains, the meadows – anywhere but here. She’d seen too much treachery, she’d been eclipsed in too much violence, and she couldn’t understand, couldn’t fathom, why their chances had been so slim, their moments so finite, miniscule, unbalanced. The Songbird had always regarded them as precious, but perhaps they were even more so now, so few, so vague, so in between soullessness and discord, and there was naught she could do about it. It was a powerless, agonizing feeling, and she bit down against the frustration, tried to rejoice in the whirl of the present, in the here and now, without wondering what would befall them next, what anguish, what torture, what melancholy the void had in store. He was ok, he was all right, he was scraped and bruised but otherwise untarnished, and the way it echoed across her entity enlightened her for those brief instances without calamity – striking her face in such a vivid, bright, ebullient portrait. She hadn’t worn the beneficence, the gentleness, the warmth in what felt like a lifetime, and allowed it to radiate there, away from the torturous sway, the nefarious entanglements, or the daunting dawn. Then, when her eyes caught the smallest of grins floating across his handsome features, she yearned to bottle that heartwarming occasion too, savor and relish in it in the cold, darkening days to come. The Mender tucked herself away in the promise of his grin, in the layers of his presence, because that was all she could do now – when they had nothing left but one another and the beckoning hands of damnation. “I don’t know,” she answered, for she’d yet to find shelter. Their brethren had dispersed into the wind, in all directions, sometimes seen again as Kisamoa hissed and growled, sometimes spotted when the hour of need was at hand. But there’d been no place to gather and unite, not like Helovia, where they could bend and bleed beneath the weight of the mountain. They were lost, lingering refugees, and there was no end in sight, no empires glowing on the horizon, no lands for refuge without seething, conniving maelstroms behind it. She detested it was the only response she could give and grant, that no hope was laced in its parallels, that there was only the unknown distorting the background. The nymph nearly offered herself up as sanctuary, to be that sliver of deliverance and liberation; but even she had her limits. Perhaps they could only persevere, endure, day after day, night after night, until something happened. “You could explore with me?” Her eyes were illustrious and honeyed in the lack of light, in the torment consuming and chewing the scenery, proffering more promises and hopes, ambitions and aspirations – it was all she could do. “Maybe we’ll be able to find something.” |
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We’ll be okay was an echo amidst the endless chasm, and it reverberated through her heart, pulsed amidst her smile, until she was vibrancy and heavenly light again. Though the resonation quavered, as if it was stuck in his throat and not entirely resolute (too much of the unknown ricocheting in those blinded folds, in those unyielding veils), she brought it back to her chest, to her essence, to her soul, and locked it tightly away. Her assurance, her confidence, would be enough to warrant them through, to connect the dots, to flourish the schemes, plots, and designs, to quietly immerse themselves in the threshold of unsung sedition – noble, dignified rebellion, by refusing to delve into irreverence and disaster. She refused to falter, refused to stumble, refused to fall further into the muck and grime, and the Mender, the Songbird, would never allow Roland to crumble either – she’d be the rock, the stalwart swallow, the intrepid healer, until the moment she took her last breaths. “Of course,” Lena whispered, grin triumphant and glorious, anointed and consecrated, because they’d be more than false promises and hollowed hopes; deliverance and liberation lining their bones. She sighed, shook her head, forgot the rain drops and the mist clinging to her mane, to her pelt, to her hide, and turned her gaze to glance at the world beyond ghosts and shadows; to where there was a place in the sun, in the earth, in the kingdom, where there was more than emptiness and sorrow. “Together,” she pressed a kiss into his cheek, and another below his jaw, sliding past his apprehension, and believing in more than just the unsettling wares coating their existence. They were bold and brilliant, glistening and defiant, and they’d show the realm, no matter how murky, exactly what they were made of. This time she followed (mighty steps and pad-foot decibels into the drifting haze) instead of led – for none of them knew what lay beyond, and the territory was an eternal mystery, but they were more. |