10-24-2019, 12:53 PM
In the dream she ran, bare feet stinging with each slap against the earth. Thorns tore fragile flesh, barbed in the snarls of her hair, clutching and ripping at the ragged remains of her skirts. It did not slow her. Arms pumping she ploughed onward, faster than the frantic hammer in her chest, the purest of wildthings bound to this insubstantial and inconstant world. The forest chased dizzy around her. Water slapped great puddles, tinged with her own blood. Leaves grew broader and branches reached higher as the trees soared, until she grew exhausted with the effort.
Mara could not help her with this. Jon was gone. Calvin and Tristan were wolfkin.
Thought chased.
Alone alone alone.
Why are you afraid?
What did I do?
You set the ward yourself, Nimeda.
When she tripped, the heels of her hands landed hard in compacted snow. A mournful wail escaped her throat at the icy scrape of cold bit the warmth away, and the breath stole quickly from her lungs. It hurt to breathe at all after that, enough that she could not immediately find her feet. Shivers burrowed as she lurched slowly upwards. Blood streaked her skin, stained on the ruffled white powder below. It was the only smear of colour in the frozen tundra whipping wildly in the razor wind around her, until the faint impression of a shadow broke through the storm.
The Lady reached for her marked hand, running her cool fingers across the symbol while Nim’s teeth chattered. Her strange eyes rose to study the bloody scrapes and bruises, superficial wounds all, but an unusual adornment for one well versed in this place. “It will tell her to run, when she wakes,” Nim cried over the wind. Or she hoped it would. It was the only message she could send; the only warning she could hope to give her waking self. She tried to close her fingers and remove the scrutiny, but the muscles did not respond.
The storm thickened, but the Lady’s raven hair did not stir about her beautiful face, though neither was she untouched. Snowflakes glittered like diamonds in those inky tresses, where the silver cowl did not cover her head. She didn’t move, or release her grip. “It brands you as a thief,” she said. The wind should have sliced those soft words to pieces, but they rang as clear as a whisper into the shell of Nimeda’s ear. It did not sound like an accusation so much as a thoughtful murmuring, the meaning of either lost on Nim. The cold was sucking away her sense of urgency, and her distracted thoughts bounced back to the last time she had met this creature. A sudden hope sparked, like a warm pit in her stomach. Else perhaps the snow would kill her here, and had begun its numbing lull to the final sleep. It no longer seemed like such a poor fate.
“You watch over the wolf who believes himself a troll? He thought he might help, if he could, but he seemed doubtful. Wolves spare no love for me, their memories are too long.” Oh, it was hard to force the words out, like maybe her insides were freezing solid. It seemed to her own ears that the wind stole most of what she shouted, but the Old One did not end the storm, though it was within her power. “Vánagandr was not the river monster I meant to find, but I think it no longer matters. That chance may be gone now.”
Maybe there was a flash of amusement, maybe she imagined it squinting through the swirling snow. When the Grey Lady’s lips parted this time, Nim heard nothing of what she said, but found her gaze tugged down, beyond the hand still held by the other, uncertain for what she sought. The wind died suddenly. Snow drifted peaceful until everything rested still. Nim’s sense of cold retreated to a quickly forgotten memory. Control returned absently as she crouched, understanding somewhere in the back of her mind that it meant the Old One had left her. Snow reached an endless blanket. Mountains rose in the distance.
She sank. Ice crusted her skin, crackling when she moved, yet she did nothing to change her appearance. Blue-tinged palms reached to where the Lady had indicated, eager, like maybe an answer finally waited, but when she brushed away the snow the only thing revealed was a stubby green shoot clawing defiantly from the dull earth.
Mara could not help her with this. Jon was gone. Calvin and Tristan were wolfkin.
Thought chased.
Alone alone alone.
Why are you afraid?
What did I do?
You set the ward yourself, Nimeda.
When she tripped, the heels of her hands landed hard in compacted snow. A mournful wail escaped her throat at the icy scrape of cold bit the warmth away, and the breath stole quickly from her lungs. It hurt to breathe at all after that, enough that she could not immediately find her feet. Shivers burrowed as she lurched slowly upwards. Blood streaked her skin, stained on the ruffled white powder below. It was the only smear of colour in the frozen tundra whipping wildly in the razor wind around her, until the faint impression of a shadow broke through the storm.
The Lady reached for her marked hand, running her cool fingers across the symbol while Nim’s teeth chattered. Her strange eyes rose to study the bloody scrapes and bruises, superficial wounds all, but an unusual adornment for one well versed in this place. “It will tell her to run, when she wakes,” Nim cried over the wind. Or she hoped it would. It was the only message she could send; the only warning she could hope to give her waking self. She tried to close her fingers and remove the scrutiny, but the muscles did not respond.
The storm thickened, but the Lady’s raven hair did not stir about her beautiful face, though neither was she untouched. Snowflakes glittered like diamonds in those inky tresses, where the silver cowl did not cover her head. She didn’t move, or release her grip. “It brands you as a thief,” she said. The wind should have sliced those soft words to pieces, but they rang as clear as a whisper into the shell of Nimeda’s ear. It did not sound like an accusation so much as a thoughtful murmuring, the meaning of either lost on Nim. The cold was sucking away her sense of urgency, and her distracted thoughts bounced back to the last time she had met this creature. A sudden hope sparked, like a warm pit in her stomach. Else perhaps the snow would kill her here, and had begun its numbing lull to the final sleep. It no longer seemed like such a poor fate.
“You watch over the wolf who believes himself a troll? He thought he might help, if he could, but he seemed doubtful. Wolves spare no love for me, their memories are too long.” Oh, it was hard to force the words out, like maybe her insides were freezing solid. It seemed to her own ears that the wind stole most of what she shouted, but the Old One did not end the storm, though it was within her power. “Vánagandr was not the river monster I meant to find, but I think it no longer matters. That chance may be gone now.”
Maybe there was a flash of amusement, maybe she imagined it squinting through the swirling snow. When the Grey Lady’s lips parted this time, Nim heard nothing of what she said, but found her gaze tugged down, beyond the hand still held by the other, uncertain for what she sought. The wind died suddenly. Snow drifted peaceful until everything rested still. Nim’s sense of cold retreated to a quickly forgotten memory. Control returned absently as she crouched, understanding somewhere in the back of her mind that it meant the Old One had left her. Snow reached an endless blanket. Mountains rose in the distance.
She sank. Ice crusted her skin, crackling when she moved, yet she did nothing to change her appearance. Blue-tinged palms reached to where the Lady had indicated, eager, like maybe an answer finally waited, but when she brushed away the snow the only thing revealed was a stubby green shoot clawing defiantly from the dull earth.