[se] the secret history

Lena

hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul

Lena had been raised to never even believe the Voice to be an option. The education had been mired and rooted deep into her mind for as long as she could walk and talk and remember; and thus she’d long since been instilled in the eye of the Old Gods. In the presence of beautiful stars and endless paradise, in the fixtures of sagacity and archaic overtures. She’d settled into her role with the grace, air, and dignity of a methodical, curious, and compassionate young woman – who cared and cared and cared, but had yet to truly step outside these walls, save for whirlwind moments of going with Cian to snag and save Falke.

So she took the “of course not” for validity and truth, with the widened smile of her usual grace and poise.

The gourds hastened their retreat, back out into the wilderness, and the Caretaker laughed lightly, like a sprig of harmony and humming over the gestures of silence amidst the rest of the library’s crowd. “Thank you.” She lowered the admission to a whisper, so as not to disturb anyone, beckoning Ellyra to close the door behind them, and leave the cold air outside. “Do you have a favorite?” Old God, of course.

Then she began to traipse her way back to the stacks and shelves, presuming Ellyra would follow and do the same, another crisis averted.

and sings the tune without the words
and never stops at all