Soteria

[Thalia]

She watched the gold shields of Tristan’s eyes, curious to catch some glimpse of the thoughts that swam behind them. He seemed to her a man naturally quiet; his pensive silences did not surprise her, yet the echo of the words he did speak seemed as entranced as the way he watched the water guardian’s vigil, and for that she wondered at what stirred him so. A smile softened her, adrift of understanding but content to be tugged into his currents.

When she had first told Noctua of Need he had warned her of the sinful things to be found in the hearts of man, but Nimeda only ever saw things to be soothed, not judged -- and certainly not ignored, whatever they were, and wherever they were asked. Physical need could be a comfort for many things, or simply shared for its joy. But usually it was something sought from her in the Inbetween place (when it was sought from her at all), not by those who walked the dreamworld knowingly, and who thus understood she was not just a figment of their dreaming. 

She’d accepted the suddenness of Tristan’s arousal openly, welcoming it even, but there was something more tender to him now than she would have expected of pure release. He pulled her hand to rest entwined with his against his chest, tight to the heart she declared to beat so fiercely. The wrap of his palm was warm despite the coldness of the lake’s water still tracking down his skin. It anchored her unusually quiet.

Nimeda knew only what she observed of the wolves and their brethren from afar, but the bonds between them seemed a thing deeply rooted. Such passions as he seemed willing to share with her should have been sated amongst the true family promised him -- for surely there were more suitable partners for those affections in his Waking world, where such need would be better satisfied than in a dream. He had professed to living alone in the cottage, but had seemed on the verge of epiphany to seek what the Grey Lady encouraged him to find on distant shores. The question was on the tip of her tongue, flecked with concern, but then he drew closer and it became something to remember to ask later. She did not think he could simply be lonely. He had not sought her out; she had been the one to pull him here.

If a mountain might grow limbs, its embrace would resemble the curl of his arms. It reminded her of the secret pocket behind a waterfall, not least because the roaring rush of his resonance dampened her sense of the world beyond. Drips fell from him to streak cold trails against her own skin. Even in the eternal twilight of the dream his eyes caught the light, a reminder that perhaps she should not encourage such a diversion. But Nimeda was old. No one ever said she was wise.

Her hand had not strayed from where he placed it against the coarseness of his chest, the other sliding over his hip to accommodate the distance closed. She was not without the flare of her own desires at feeling him flush against her, but though her face hovered tantalisingly close she did not seek his lips quickly; just the breath of them, courted slow in barest touch. Her nose brushed light across his as her heart fell into the rhythm of captivation. She did not know what he sought from her, nor suspected he really knew himself. Yet instinct guided where reason did not tread. 

She’d asked for his trust before she pulled him into the deep of the lake, and he’d given it freely. She asked for it again when she finally touched the invitation of her lips to his, and this time pulled him instead into her own depths. Her kiss was slow, caught to the steady cadence of a pounding heartbeat, and she held nothing back from its exploration or passion. More tempestuous flames were simmered deep, burned like banked coals as she encouraged the weight of chains from his shoulders. She pulled him deeper. It was intimacy she offered; trust that it was something he might choose for himself despite the conflicts of soul and blood. He need not fear losing control. He could not hurt her here.