House of Memories

Lena the Songbird The sultry, humid heat snatched at her first; she’d been a maiden of the mountains, of the pine, of the snow and frigid wind for too long – it crept at her throat and leapt at her lungs, caused an already keen sense of discomfort to loom and prosper. She pushed back at it with steely determination and stalwart enterprise, and though the journey was not completely overwhelming, treacherous, or unnerving, the eerie, otherworldly qualities of the beckoning, leering forest sent her senses into constant contemplation. There were dangerous things all around them (she’d lived through too much to expect anything less) - foreign and unknown, and the Mender would be foolish and lying if she declared herself absent of fear. It was a plaguing sensation, uncomfortable and bleak, but a warning sign too – Imogen was on alert, keen white ears swiveling in all directions, and only when they’d crawled from the inky, Stygian denizen did Lena offer a small sigh of relief, a breath of disquiet bounding away from her. Her healer’s mind grappled with the opportunities she hadn’t snagged at ruminating and speculating over the brilliant array of plant life (for which could be beneficial, or which would tangle, threaten, and devour?), but they could come in later moments, when she knew more about this world, when she could be more than a defiant little blossom in the churning, bristling wind. She caught traces of sea air as they maneuvered further down the length of scenery, basking along cliffs and entangling amidst the salty brine; and all at once she was nearly back within another time, another place. The sights and sounds of the past would always haunt her, would always make her dream for those moments lost to shadows, darkness, and betrayal; because they’d been beautiful, grand, and serene, because even if they’d been bleak too, there’d been so many other occasions when the world hadn’t swallowed them whole. They seemed like heaven compared to their current whereabouts – but she’d been a witness to too many ghosts and wraiths, phantoms and false gods – perhaps her perception had been skewed, altered, and clawed apart in the reigning, recent days. To protect and shield herself, she hummed under her breath, a quiet, grand set of notes that combined and wove their way along the breeze, blending into the crashing waves below, something serene and tranquil amidst the wild, wicked empire they’d come to barely understand. Lost amidst memories and apprehension, along coils and ripples of strength, endurance, and fortitude (and where to go next, what did this place have to offer, was there shelter in the storm, was there something beyond all of this that they were supposed to find, honor, harbor, or harpoon?), she stared over the great expanse and almost didn’t hear Roland until the softness of his voice had touched along her ears. She turned towards him then, watched the first touches of dawn elongate over his face, and smiled; eternally a dreamer. “I’m fine,” the Songbird murmured in reply, always a stanza on her lips, a refrain on her tongue, glancing back towards the grove they’d been within only minutes before. “The forest leaves an unsettling feeling,” she offered, brutal honesty, for she had no reason to disguise herself in his presence – they were far past masquerades and veils (she was devotion, benedictions, faith, and love, triumphant in the darkest of hours, blinding in the distant reveries and raptures). Imogen agreed with a disgruntled growl and hiss directed towards the uncanny trees. Then Lena's eyes came to rest on Roland's again, and she drowned in them once more, that brilliant, bold blue, like the fringes of the sea down below (except brighter; sometimes the sky, sometimes the horizon, sometimes the unfreezing lake), pulsing his inquiry back. “And you?”

Image Credits
@Roland