07-18-2020, 10:40 PM
Her arms stretched languid above her head, an idle tangle with her hair spread out against the grass. Heavy breaths slowed, and Nimeda was content to sink into the pleasant ache and drifting afterglow, her hazy smile unselfconscious of such obvious rapture. Beside her the darkness receded from Tristan’s eyes, yet the inky circle on his chest remained in its new pattern. For now she only tilted her chin to watch curious of his exploration, mesmerised by its strangeness and her memory of it rippling alive against his skin. She did not know what summoned it, but the way it had moved fascinated her.
Awe touched Tristan's expression in a way that deepened both her smile and her sense of charm when he finally looked askance to her, until surprise distracted them both. Mystified, her gaze followed the reach of his fingertips.
She saw only undulating waves sweeping a circle before the rest of the glyph was lost beneath the shadow of his hand, and sudden realisation settled into an inquisitive if somewhat wary epiphany as her head pressed back down to the earth. She watched Tristan’s expression rather than the oddity carved now into her own skin. Old things stirred, and perhaps like had drawn on like, dredging secrets from darkest depths. For a moment she wondered if it was actually wise for him to touch it. Awareness of such ancient stirrings did not equate to mastery, or even understanding, let alone of consequence. But, to both misfortune and joy, Nimeda had never been given to caution, so she only surrendered herself to enamourment of his delicate inspection.
His touch was soft.
Feeling spread out in ripples, not just the physical trail of his fingers against still sensitive skin, but like a gentle disturbance on the still surface of a pool. It vibrated inwards. She didn't wade too deeply into the consideration of why or how. Much as when Noctua had shown her a glimpse of her Other’s face and uttered her Waking name, it felt like something better left to sink without much inspection, thus the sudden shift of his attention ushered some relief when his gaze drew away. As he rose slowly to his feet, lured to some call beyond her, her hand pressed over where his had been, and felt nothing beyond warm skin and the steady beat of her own heart. She did not study the shimmering symbol herself once her hand slipped away. She did not consider it further at all.
Afterwards she pushed herself to sit up, damp curls tumbling wild down her slim shoulders. “Sun Snatcher,” she repeated. Then added, thoughtful, “Your gold eyes turned black as a troll stone. Their surface shifted like when the Sleeping Ones stir restless in their prisons." She did not have answers, and she did not ask what he had seen, though she was curious to know. Nimeda had a reverence for mystery that did not require explanation, and she spoke of things she had never witnessed before with an equanimity that simply accepted in its fascination. Tristan’s smile had by now faded to something pensive though, which bothered her more than blood snaking alive or the intrusion of strange visions ever could. It was why she did not ask.
She expected him to shift to whatever pulled his gaze to the horizon, but at the whisper of his explanation she instead unfurled to her feet, pulled closer by her own whim. A small smile lingered for the languorousness still warming her weightless as a cloud, though she was thinking of other things now. She didn’t try to capture Tristan’s gaze from where it rested a thousand and more miles away; instead she ran her palm against his chest -- though she did not touch the outer images of the tattoo, as she would neither choose to caress the chains of a prison. “They had no right to do this to you.” There was no qualification on they, and if there was anger, it sank somewhere deeper than she acknowledged. Maybe she only spoke to herself, for the words were quiet.
Her hand lifted to trace her fingers lightly over the roam of his own. She understood what she saw. Enough of it, anyway; its language different, and foreign to her, yet its soul-deep binding familiar on some instinct she did not examine. Distaste stirred like silt in clear waters. Not for what it was, but why it was. For that reason alone she did not like it. But, as the beautiful mystery nestled within its inked boundary stirred her passions before, so it drew now; for the centre mark was not part of the chain at all. Perhaps Tristan felt it on some level himself, given the way he stroked it also.
“This part is different from the rest. I think someone loved you very much.” Enchantment captured her tone, itself a whisper, transfixed as her fingers traced its sinuous shape. She didn’t know what it was, and she spoke more with the musings of an inquisitive soul than as someone in possession of answers. She bit her lip, on the verge of summoning the light of an extra sense to press an inquiry beneath his skin, but she had no wish to hurt him by mistake. Her gaze blinked up, as though suddenly remembering the flesh and blood warmth under her touch.
Feeling stirred words she did not consider before they fell earnest from her lips. “Your blood makes you both, but also neither. Choose to find the good, not just to bear the burden of its conflict. Do not let it rule you, Tristan.” She reached up on tiptoe to tug light and playful on the tip of his beard, seeking his attention. She did not know what weighted him so; shame or sadness or fear. Wolves and trolls were mortal enemies, and the calls of both would ever war in his head. Yet his melancholy was not infectious to her. Neither did the atrocities of Ages past dampen her spirit. The murky weight of her own many buried memories coupled with painful glimpses of future’s hardship might have similarly crushed; instead Nimeda chose to live vivaciously in the present.
She thought of the peace in his smile above her face. Of the bubbles zipping from his toothy grin underwater.
“Your uncle is ever rude with his timing, and you let peace escape you far too quickly, like water through fingers." If it was admonishment, it was fondly imparted. Grey eyes glittered a smile that presently lit the rest of her expression. Her hand pressed atop his, fingers lacing over and through his own. She made as though to tug him onwards, but her grip only flowed away instead. Mischief teased her expression as she slipped back, grinning. Her palm was held out in invitation. “We should go and see what he wants.”
Awe touched Tristan's expression in a way that deepened both her smile and her sense of charm when he finally looked askance to her, until surprise distracted them both. Mystified, her gaze followed the reach of his fingertips.
She saw only undulating waves sweeping a circle before the rest of the glyph was lost beneath the shadow of his hand, and sudden realisation settled into an inquisitive if somewhat wary epiphany as her head pressed back down to the earth. She watched Tristan’s expression rather than the oddity carved now into her own skin. Old things stirred, and perhaps like had drawn on like, dredging secrets from darkest depths. For a moment she wondered if it was actually wise for him to touch it. Awareness of such ancient stirrings did not equate to mastery, or even understanding, let alone of consequence. But, to both misfortune and joy, Nimeda had never been given to caution, so she only surrendered herself to enamourment of his delicate inspection.
His touch was soft.
Feeling spread out in ripples, not just the physical trail of his fingers against still sensitive skin, but like a gentle disturbance on the still surface of a pool. It vibrated inwards. She didn't wade too deeply into the consideration of why or how. Much as when Noctua had shown her a glimpse of her Other’s face and uttered her Waking name, it felt like something better left to sink without much inspection, thus the sudden shift of his attention ushered some relief when his gaze drew away. As he rose slowly to his feet, lured to some call beyond her, her hand pressed over where his had been, and felt nothing beyond warm skin and the steady beat of her own heart. She did not study the shimmering symbol herself once her hand slipped away. She did not consider it further at all.
Afterwards she pushed herself to sit up, damp curls tumbling wild down her slim shoulders. “Sun Snatcher,” she repeated. Then added, thoughtful, “Your gold eyes turned black as a troll stone. Their surface shifted like when the Sleeping Ones stir restless in their prisons." She did not have answers, and she did not ask what he had seen, though she was curious to know. Nimeda had a reverence for mystery that did not require explanation, and she spoke of things she had never witnessed before with an equanimity that simply accepted in its fascination. Tristan’s smile had by now faded to something pensive though, which bothered her more than blood snaking alive or the intrusion of strange visions ever could. It was why she did not ask.
She expected him to shift to whatever pulled his gaze to the horizon, but at the whisper of his explanation she instead unfurled to her feet, pulled closer by her own whim. A small smile lingered for the languorousness still warming her weightless as a cloud, though she was thinking of other things now. She didn’t try to capture Tristan’s gaze from where it rested a thousand and more miles away; instead she ran her palm against his chest -- though she did not touch the outer images of the tattoo, as she would neither choose to caress the chains of a prison. “They had no right to do this to you.” There was no qualification on they, and if there was anger, it sank somewhere deeper than she acknowledged. Maybe she only spoke to herself, for the words were quiet.
Her hand lifted to trace her fingers lightly over the roam of his own. She understood what she saw. Enough of it, anyway; its language different, and foreign to her, yet its soul-deep binding familiar on some instinct she did not examine. Distaste stirred like silt in clear waters. Not for what it was, but why it was. For that reason alone she did not like it. But, as the beautiful mystery nestled within its inked boundary stirred her passions before, so it drew now; for the centre mark was not part of the chain at all. Perhaps Tristan felt it on some level himself, given the way he stroked it also.
“This part is different from the rest. I think someone loved you very much.” Enchantment captured her tone, itself a whisper, transfixed as her fingers traced its sinuous shape. She didn’t know what it was, and she spoke more with the musings of an inquisitive soul than as someone in possession of answers. She bit her lip, on the verge of summoning the light of an extra sense to press an inquiry beneath his skin, but she had no wish to hurt him by mistake. Her gaze blinked up, as though suddenly remembering the flesh and blood warmth under her touch.
Feeling stirred words she did not consider before they fell earnest from her lips. “Your blood makes you both, but also neither. Choose to find the good, not just to bear the burden of its conflict. Do not let it rule you, Tristan.” She reached up on tiptoe to tug light and playful on the tip of his beard, seeking his attention. She did not know what weighted him so; shame or sadness or fear. Wolves and trolls were mortal enemies, and the calls of both would ever war in his head. Yet his melancholy was not infectious to her. Neither did the atrocities of Ages past dampen her spirit. The murky weight of her own many buried memories coupled with painful glimpses of future’s hardship might have similarly crushed; instead Nimeda chose to live vivaciously in the present.
She thought of the peace in his smile above her face. Of the bubbles zipping from his toothy grin underwater.
“Your uncle is ever rude with his timing, and you let peace escape you far too quickly, like water through fingers." If it was admonishment, it was fondly imparted. Grey eyes glittered a smile that presently lit the rest of her expression. Her hand pressed atop his, fingers lacing over and through his own. She made as though to tug him onwards, but her grip only flowed away instead. Mischief teased her expression as she slipped back, grinning. Her palm was held out in invitation. “We should go and see what he wants.”
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)