10-10-2020, 08:52 PM
The lake was vast, and its answers barred from him. He wandered its shore to no real purpose, much as he had once haunted the edges of Roopkund during the journey there with Declan. Sometimes dreams tumbled answers like bones fallen from a seer’s palm. Often they at least gave him the solitude to think. But fate did not smile kindly this night.
When he turned, two figures huddled upon the stones, framed by the scrubby grass of the hill beyond.
The recognition did not please him, though the flat plane of his expression did not shift beyond the flex of his jaw. It was the child upon which his attention lingered, though only for a moment. Sören had not wanted to confront Nimeda in the dream; had not wanted to risk reminding the artist of his face, and so complicate his retrieval of the artefact in the waking world. His facade shimmered, on the verge of fading, before it instead flickered closer. He could not leave, though he cursed the tie.
Blood trickled down the side of Nimeda’s face, and no flowers adorned the tangle of her hair. Sören had never seen her in the sorts of clothes he supposed Thalia might wear, like for once she was speared to the flesh and blood body that housed her waking soul. Yet it was not concern that anchored him, but a flash of something that might have been anger, carefully smothered. “Will you seek out everything that is mine, woman?”
She blinked, vacant. The child burrowed closer as the woman she clutched swayed. Sören did not look down. Nimeda did not answer, until eventually her eyes rounded and a breathy “oh,” fell from her lips. She often swept away on currents he had little interest in following, for all her uses. So often she offered everything of herself without considering the consequences. Her lips parted, as though to speak whatever epiphany furrowed her brow to wonder, but Sören had no intention of hearing what she might say.
“What have you done to yourself?” He reached out, knowing the touch would startle her. Indeed she flinched as his fingers wrapped her forearm. A twist revealed her palm, not the smooth scar he had seen before. The wound beneath was angry and red, like Thalia had not been taking particularly good care of it, despite the medicated bandage. Nimeda pulled her arm back stubbornly, and he let it slip away. “I do not wish her dead, Nimeda,” he snapped.
When he turned, two figures huddled upon the stones, framed by the scrubby grass of the hill beyond.
The recognition did not please him, though the flat plane of his expression did not shift beyond the flex of his jaw. It was the child upon which his attention lingered, though only for a moment. Sören had not wanted to confront Nimeda in the dream; had not wanted to risk reminding the artist of his face, and so complicate his retrieval of the artefact in the waking world. His facade shimmered, on the verge of fading, before it instead flickered closer. He could not leave, though he cursed the tie.
Blood trickled down the side of Nimeda’s face, and no flowers adorned the tangle of her hair. Sören had never seen her in the sorts of clothes he supposed Thalia might wear, like for once she was speared to the flesh and blood body that housed her waking soul. Yet it was not concern that anchored him, but a flash of something that might have been anger, carefully smothered. “Will you seek out everything that is mine, woman?”
She blinked, vacant. The child burrowed closer as the woman she clutched swayed. Sören did not look down. Nimeda did not answer, until eventually her eyes rounded and a breathy “oh,” fell from her lips. She often swept away on currents he had little interest in following, for all her uses. So often she offered everything of herself without considering the consequences. Her lips parted, as though to speak whatever epiphany furrowed her brow to wonder, but Sören had no intention of hearing what she might say.
“What have you done to yourself?” He reached out, knowing the touch would startle her. Indeed she flinched as his fingers wrapped her forearm. A twist revealed her palm, not the smooth scar he had seen before. The wound beneath was angry and red, like Thalia had not been taking particularly good care of it, despite the medicated bandage. Nimeda pulled her arm back stubbornly, and he let it slip away. “I do not wish her dead, Nimeda,” he snapped.
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)