Used to Be

Lena the Songbird 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.

Image Credits
@Roland