04-10-2019, 09:59 PM
It was strangely novel how the blood rushed to rediscover limbs. Heat prickled and swelled until a wiggle of toes confirmed they still took residence at the end of her feet. Contentedness drifted, lulled by fire and the words that curled in her ears. Tristan’s voice was deep as tumbling rocks. She smiled at his description of his first meeting with Thorn Paw, gratified to find humour sprouting new shoots through his serious manner. Nim was fond of stories, and her imagination painted rich pictures even from sparse details. The flames danced to the shapes, indistinct at first. She barely realised she was doing it.
“But you live by the water,” she said skeptically. The puzzlement was genuine. Maybe she had no true concept of what it might be like to live in this place in the Other world, but here she saw it only as a place swept by vast beauty. Nature’s hand carved roots far deeper than man’s cities, and perhaps it felt more real to her than the shifting nature of inside places such as the cottage. The majesty of the fjords were enough on their own. But then Nim had no need of a home. “I suspect you just never asked anyone.” Her eyes narrowed and she smiled with the tease, though she meant it solemnly. Her expression sobered a moment later.
“I am alone, yes,” she agreed, surprised. Pain flared, but the stone dropped deep into the murk. She never remembered much from the times between her rebirth into the waking world, for such eons stretched her adrift without an anchor, but when the gifts that brought people to this world slept quietly -- and they had, for a long time -- then, she had been truly alone. It stirred something in her she did not let fully rouse, aware the dissonance might fray her control. She had always been a social creature, a constant of her soul, and so the connections she made were always important things to her. Somewhere deep, she understood it was the very same quality that led her readily to the dark places if it meant the prize of acceptance when all else shunned. Knowing that flaw never changed the need, despite the consequences. “But I would not choose it.”
She shrugged, though the emotions ran far deeper than such a casual gesture, and leaned to listen further with no more thought on it. Moments were lived one step at a time, and his company for now washed away consideration of the time to follow after he left, or the time that would also one day follow when none but wolves walked the dream again. “Your uncle is very rude, but there is a reason trolls are better suited to their own company. I’ve asked him many times for his help, but he never answered. And he could, if he wanted.” She didn’t turn to look at the pillar, instead captivated by something else.
”He's why you come back,” she observed. Nim understood well enough that even bad love was still love, and acceptance rather than accusation cradled the words. What Tristan's uncle had been in life made little difference to her, nor the disharmonious blend of wolf and troll that tangled his past. She doubted Thorn Paw felt the same way about the attachment, and yet the bonds between them still led the wolf here to watch and protect. Nim shifted enough to free one arm. She did not worry much about modesty, but the blanket was large, and the thick tangles of her hair drowned beyond her slim shoulders anyway. “Maybe you have different blood, but in here you are wolf,” she said, her warm palm splayed briefly across his chest. Whatever else Nim was or had ever been, her nature attuned quietly to conflict. It drew her like a siren's call to offer comfort. Tristan was not lost. But he was still learning. Words came without thought, simple and earnest.
He was sat close anyway, but she leaned rapt into the whisper. The cadence alone swept her along, like the rustle of leaves and ancient wind. She could almost feel the grey lady’s breath ushering power into the words. Nim’s head tilted, gaze wide with the enchantment of such secrecy as he peered down for her reaction. The depth of her curiosity was unfeigned and unhidden; her lips parted as though she would repeat the words to herself, but what whispered out was only, “Which beginning?” It wasn’t a question she expected him to answer. She saw things, sometimes; flutterings. “For an ending certainly comes.”
She blinked as another question pierced. Everything clouded.
“Oh,” she said. A frown pressed; the channel of her mind changed slowly. “Grim is a visitor from time to time. He does not share his own name, so I chose one for him, like Jon chose mine. I don’t think he likes me very much, but he enjoys the peace of the river. I know he travels. I know he could go to Moscow. But I don't know why he would help me.” Offending him had probably not helped, though she was not certain how she had done so, beyond his unfavourable reaction to her touch.
“I’m not fond of the city. Old memories swarm like ghosts there. Someone I loved very much, a long time ago. And feared in equal measure, I think.” An arch reared in the fire's heart. And other vague images she paid no mind to, for she was still watching the kin. The flames reflected the gold discs of his eyes. “I would not make you go, Tristan,” she said softly. The desperation of her cause did not urge her to reach for the gifts that might work the manipulation into him, until the idea was indistinguishable from his own. It sat in her chest like a second heartbeat, that light, but she rarely reached for it. She had offered to smooth the past's ills enough times to understand the recoil in others suggested what she offered so solemnly was considered more curse than boon.
She swallowed the disappointment. Her gaze finally broke to watch the fire, sure of something she had missed.
“But you live by the water,” she said skeptically. The puzzlement was genuine. Maybe she had no true concept of what it might be like to live in this place in the Other world, but here she saw it only as a place swept by vast beauty. Nature’s hand carved roots far deeper than man’s cities, and perhaps it felt more real to her than the shifting nature of inside places such as the cottage. The majesty of the fjords were enough on their own. But then Nim had no need of a home. “I suspect you just never asked anyone.” Her eyes narrowed and she smiled with the tease, though she meant it solemnly. Her expression sobered a moment later.
“I am alone, yes,” she agreed, surprised. Pain flared, but the stone dropped deep into the murk. She never remembered much from the times between her rebirth into the waking world, for such eons stretched her adrift without an anchor, but when the gifts that brought people to this world slept quietly -- and they had, for a long time -- then, she had been truly alone. It stirred something in her she did not let fully rouse, aware the dissonance might fray her control. She had always been a social creature, a constant of her soul, and so the connections she made were always important things to her. Somewhere deep, she understood it was the very same quality that led her readily to the dark places if it meant the prize of acceptance when all else shunned. Knowing that flaw never changed the need, despite the consequences. “But I would not choose it.”
She shrugged, though the emotions ran far deeper than such a casual gesture, and leaned to listen further with no more thought on it. Moments were lived one step at a time, and his company for now washed away consideration of the time to follow after he left, or the time that would also one day follow when none but wolves walked the dream again. “Your uncle is very rude, but there is a reason trolls are better suited to their own company. I’ve asked him many times for his help, but he never answered. And he could, if he wanted.” She didn’t turn to look at the pillar, instead captivated by something else.
”He's why you come back,” she observed. Nim understood well enough that even bad love was still love, and acceptance rather than accusation cradled the words. What Tristan's uncle had been in life made little difference to her, nor the disharmonious blend of wolf and troll that tangled his past. She doubted Thorn Paw felt the same way about the attachment, and yet the bonds between them still led the wolf here to watch and protect. Nim shifted enough to free one arm. She did not worry much about modesty, but the blanket was large, and the thick tangles of her hair drowned beyond her slim shoulders anyway. “Maybe you have different blood, but in here you are wolf,” she said, her warm palm splayed briefly across his chest. Whatever else Nim was or had ever been, her nature attuned quietly to conflict. It drew her like a siren's call to offer comfort. Tristan was not lost. But he was still learning. Words came without thought, simple and earnest.
He was sat close anyway, but she leaned rapt into the whisper. The cadence alone swept her along, like the rustle of leaves and ancient wind. She could almost feel the grey lady’s breath ushering power into the words. Nim’s head tilted, gaze wide with the enchantment of such secrecy as he peered down for her reaction. The depth of her curiosity was unfeigned and unhidden; her lips parted as though she would repeat the words to herself, but what whispered out was only, “Which beginning?” It wasn’t a question she expected him to answer. She saw things, sometimes; flutterings. “For an ending certainly comes.”
She blinked as another question pierced. Everything clouded.
“Oh,” she said. A frown pressed; the channel of her mind changed slowly. “Grim is a visitor from time to time. He does not share his own name, so I chose one for him, like Jon chose mine. I don’t think he likes me very much, but he enjoys the peace of the river. I know he travels. I know he could go to Moscow. But I don't know why he would help me.” Offending him had probably not helped, though she was not certain how she had done so, beyond his unfavourable reaction to her touch.
“I’m not fond of the city. Old memories swarm like ghosts there. Someone I loved very much, a long time ago. And feared in equal measure, I think.” An arch reared in the fire's heart. And other vague images she paid no mind to, for she was still watching the kin. The flames reflected the gold discs of his eyes. “I would not make you go, Tristan,” she said softly. The desperation of her cause did not urge her to reach for the gifts that might work the manipulation into him, until the idea was indistinguishable from his own. It sat in her chest like a second heartbeat, that light, but she rarely reached for it. She had offered to smooth the past's ills enough times to understand the recoil in others suggested what she offered so solemnly was considered more curse than boon.
She swallowed the disappointment. Her gaze finally broke to watch the fire, sure of something she had missed.