02-14-2019, 09:08 PM
Nimeda returned the next time she woke, and several times after that.
She explored the dwelling behind the red-painted door, its innards in constant and meaningless flux. Sometimes she followed the slope down to the water’s edge and soaked her feet in its glacial depths, skirts trailing as she wandered and hummed tuneless songs with no name. Other times she raced the surf for the joy, pink-cheeked and laughing breathless, just to hear the gasp of her own voice. The landscape was quiet and beautiful and lonely. Its horizon promised forever, the curious blue of the sky peeping behind the cradle of snow-capped hills for the fleeting hours of daylight.
The grey lady did not return.
In her absence, Nim told the basalt stone the story of the girl in the tower most times she visited, sat cross-legged in the grass like some strange white flower sprouted at its feet. Sometimes she just stared into the swirling black, chin pressed into her hands, and wondered why the Need had led her to an abandoned grave.
“What could you possibly have that the grimnir would want?”
She flopped back in frustration, arms spread wide, and stared up at the stars. When night rushed in everything grew so utterly dark they gleamed like a scattering of diamonds strewn by the hand of some careless god.
Time unravelled a little between her visits, and she did not follow its nature at the best of times. Nim could not remember when she first recalled an awareness of the wolf. The four-legged kin watched her from time to time, and mostly she paid it no mind. They had a right to watch. They had a right to be cautious. Or they had, once.
He kept his distance, the giant black and white wolf; a looming shadow in her periphery, or the eerie glow of lambent eyes following while she amused herself in the cold clear waters or perched by the stone pillar. No companions swept the land behind him. No howls warned in the distance. It tickled a question against her mind, but if he was a warning she did not choose to heed it. Unease did not plague her, though she suspected it was an accusation of trespass. Instead she grew used to the company.
Focus never came to her easily, and she was beginning to wane even with the stitches of the story to pluck at her attention. Her gaze arched up to the now familiar heights of the black pillar, silent and immutable as ever. No epiphany ever soothed her vigil. Today her fingers wound in the grass as the frustration crashed a wave over her head, bowing her down. She deflated, forehead pressed to the ground, and spent a sharp sigh into the earth. “I’m sorry, Mara. I will find another way.”
She lifted her head to discover, with some curious surprise, that the wolf had drawn near, close enough for her to feel the heat of his fetid breath. Even sitting he towered above, the thick brush of his tail wrapped neatly about his paws. A low grumble sounded deep in his throat. Nim did not need the talents of the kin to know what it meant. “If I might give you an expression, it would be one of annoyance,” she told him solemnly. No fear touched the curiosity of her brow, though the curl of the wolf's lip suggested he might snap her in twain with a flex of his jaw. “Why are you here, old one? This cannot be home to a wolf. It’s too quiet. And--” A paint-smudged finger rose to indicate the pillar, brows raised, though of course he could not answer. Or, at least, she had no way of understanding it.
She explored the dwelling behind the red-painted door, its innards in constant and meaningless flux. Sometimes she followed the slope down to the water’s edge and soaked her feet in its glacial depths, skirts trailing as she wandered and hummed tuneless songs with no name. Other times she raced the surf for the joy, pink-cheeked and laughing breathless, just to hear the gasp of her own voice. The landscape was quiet and beautiful and lonely. Its horizon promised forever, the curious blue of the sky peeping behind the cradle of snow-capped hills for the fleeting hours of daylight.
The grey lady did not return.
In her absence, Nim told the basalt stone the story of the girl in the tower most times she visited, sat cross-legged in the grass like some strange white flower sprouted at its feet. Sometimes she just stared into the swirling black, chin pressed into her hands, and wondered why the Need had led her to an abandoned grave.
“What could you possibly have that the grimnir would want?”
She flopped back in frustration, arms spread wide, and stared up at the stars. When night rushed in everything grew so utterly dark they gleamed like a scattering of diamonds strewn by the hand of some careless god.
***
Time unravelled a little between her visits, and she did not follow its nature at the best of times. Nim could not remember when she first recalled an awareness of the wolf. The four-legged kin watched her from time to time, and mostly she paid it no mind. They had a right to watch. They had a right to be cautious. Or they had, once.
He kept his distance, the giant black and white wolf; a looming shadow in her periphery, or the eerie glow of lambent eyes following while she amused herself in the cold clear waters or perched by the stone pillar. No companions swept the land behind him. No howls warned in the distance. It tickled a question against her mind, but if he was a warning she did not choose to heed it. Unease did not plague her, though she suspected it was an accusation of trespass. Instead she grew used to the company.
Focus never came to her easily, and she was beginning to wane even with the stitches of the story to pluck at her attention. Her gaze arched up to the now familiar heights of the black pillar, silent and immutable as ever. No epiphany ever soothed her vigil. Today her fingers wound in the grass as the frustration crashed a wave over her head, bowing her down. She deflated, forehead pressed to the ground, and spent a sharp sigh into the earth. “I’m sorry, Mara. I will find another way.”
She lifted her head to discover, with some curious surprise, that the wolf had drawn near, close enough for her to feel the heat of his fetid breath. Even sitting he towered above, the thick brush of his tail wrapped neatly about his paws. A low grumble sounded deep in his throat. Nim did not need the talents of the kin to know what it meant. “If I might give you an expression, it would be one of annoyance,” she told him solemnly. No fear touched the curiosity of her brow, though the curl of the wolf's lip suggested he might snap her in twain with a flex of his jaw. “Why are you here, old one? This cannot be home to a wolf. It’s too quiet. And--” A paint-smudged finger rose to indicate the pillar, brows raised, though of course he could not answer. Or, at least, she had no way of understanding it.