Used to Be

Lena the Songbird 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.”

Image Credits
@Roland