10-18-2020, 11:05 PM
Thalia didn’t immediately open her eyes when she woke, though the deep breathing of sleep levelled off to something shallower. Voices trailed over her head like shooting stars, distant and incomprehensible. There was always a moment after waking before everything settled, like whatever spirit flew out to distant worlds took time to decant back into its housing. Feelings tumbled like summer storms, and usually she was alone to acclimatise. She fought for the last thing she remembered like it might soothe a growing sense of panic, but for a moment only came up with stars. Most people thought the brightest star in the sky was the North Star. But they were wrong. All you had to do was stay awake.
“-- minimal risk of haematoma. If she’s not confused or vomiting, and as long as she has no double vision, trouble walking, or severe head or neck pain, the best thing for her will be rest--”
No small discomfort pierced the transition between existences this time, and for a while she didn’t understand why; in fact it felt like fleeing in the wrong direction, and she began to drift back. Physical aches anchored quickly enough, though. The night chill hadn’t quite left despite the blanket, her tshirt crumpled and damp from drying against the heat of her body, and her skin beneath the swimming costume chafed sore. Her temple was blazing --
“-- head wounds can often look worse due of the amount they usually bleed, and --”
-- and she shifted to touch her stiff cheek, but refrained from sliding her fingers higher to where the pain radiated. Instead her palm dropped to press where her heart was beating a torrent. She might have curled in upon herself until the need burned all the way down to her fingers with the urge to release the dream’s secrets, but then a face swam into her line of vision. Grey whiskers, square-framed glasses. The tired look of someone roused too early from bed.
Thalia blinked, felt the panic swirl into confusion, because oh she wasn’t ready to leave this in between place. Once she did, the squeezing compulsion would tighten and the drawings would spill and it wasn’t an abnormality she was ready to share with strangers. But already a hand was on her shoulder to rouse her away from hiding, and there were more gentle words, and she realised then that she was not even outside anymore. Her gaze did not stray to explore anything beyond those serious bespectacled eyes, though. How carefully she packaged herself inwards as she shifted slowly up, still tucked into herself by the time she was sat upright, one knee to chest, the blanket still strung across her shoulders. Someone must have found her, after… after…
One hand absently rubbed at her ankle, which itched, the skin an angry red.
“-- had an accident, young lady,” he was saying, words heavily accented, but enunciated slow. “You speak English, yes? Do you know your name? Can you tell me where you are?”
Thalia’s thoughts never churned quickly at the best of times, and for a moment she was abjectly terrified that this man held her future in his hands; that wrong answers would slam like the bars of a cage, returning her to Moscow or a hospital or worse. Heat rimmed her wide eyes -- because everything was in fact entirely nebulous, and she didn’t know how to tell him that it was normal for her. Memories fought and crashed like waves, drenching her in feeling with no discernible answer or cause. He was going to watch her drown. But as she frantically picked through the driftwood of his questions, she realised he hadn’t actually asked her what had happened, and that he had no way of knowing the kaleidoscope nature of her insides.
“Of course I do,” she said eventually. “And I know I’m on Olkhon, so I guess this must be somewhere in the village? But I didn’t fall asleep here. I was by the Rock. I was by the lake.”
The doctor grunted acceptance of that answer, which was apparently proof enough of her sensibility, for he looked at her now like she was naught but a child crept errant from her bed in the middle of the night for whatever he supposed must have landed her in this mess. “She seems lucid enough,” he said as he took her chin in his cool fingers, and she did not look to see who he was talking to. She accepted the brief examination that followed in silence but for the questions he interjected. Did she feel nauseous? Did everything look normal? No double vision? But all the while she could feel the need swelling like a breath she desperately held, and it was a far worse feeling than the pain in her head, or how much blood she suddenly realised there was, until she was desperate for the excuse to pull away. At one point the doctor twisted over one of her hands, but though his lips twitched a frown, he said nothing about the second-skin bandage covering the burns. For reasons she couldn’t define, the sight of the symbol spiked her pulse to panic.
“You’re lucky, you know. No stitches required for the head. Did you slip and fall? Let’s get you cleaned up, then.” He sighed and groaned as he pushed himself up, hands on his thighs. She heard the creaky cracks of his bones as she watched him rise, and the distraction of relief unfurled as she recognised the escape. Calmer waters beckoned.
“Oh, it’s okay, really -- I can do that for myself,” she said, shifting out of the blanket. “I just need my--” Her gaze finally swept the room, because what she really meant was I can do that for myself afterwards. After the sketches had leaked all the way out and she felt a little more herself, only for that she needed the pencil and pad in her bag -- assuming whoever lugged her from the lakeside thought to bring it (and god, what if they hadn’t?). She meant to do it quickly; find her belongings, extricate herself, hope she wasn’t really dizzy when she finally stood. There had to be a bathroom, right?
But curiosity snagged like rocks for her first glimpse beyond the doctor’s frowning face. Amidst the quaint furnishings she discovered two large dogs (they weren’t dogs) and a woman with long dark hair, before smooth sailing met a sudden riptide and the final set of constellation eyes widened her own as round as they could possibly go. Everything stilled on the point of that recognition. The doctor was talking again, but this time she didn’t hear it.
“It’s you,” she said. Not that she knew who you precisely was beyond lines and shade on a page. He looked different in a way she hadn’t encountered before though; less refined, more real. No ink curved his cheek, the tangle of his beard wilder, the braid of his hair above shaved sides not so kempt. He was smaller, too. Surprise softened her expression, but her heart beat madly; no longer the fear Patricus had snuffed with his acerbic certainty, but certainly it left her in sudden freefall. She’d come to Baikal looking for a monster, not a man, but she didn’t know what to do with either discovery.
“-- minimal risk of haematoma. If she’s not confused or vomiting, and as long as she has no double vision, trouble walking, or severe head or neck pain, the best thing for her will be rest--”
No small discomfort pierced the transition between existences this time, and for a while she didn’t understand why; in fact it felt like fleeing in the wrong direction, and she began to drift back. Physical aches anchored quickly enough, though. The night chill hadn’t quite left despite the blanket, her tshirt crumpled and damp from drying against the heat of her body, and her skin beneath the swimming costume chafed sore. Her temple was blazing --
“-- head wounds can often look worse due of the amount they usually bleed, and --”
-- and she shifted to touch her stiff cheek, but refrained from sliding her fingers higher to where the pain radiated. Instead her palm dropped to press where her heart was beating a torrent. She might have curled in upon herself until the need burned all the way down to her fingers with the urge to release the dream’s secrets, but then a face swam into her line of vision. Grey whiskers, square-framed glasses. The tired look of someone roused too early from bed.
Thalia blinked, felt the panic swirl into confusion, because oh she wasn’t ready to leave this in between place. Once she did, the squeezing compulsion would tighten and the drawings would spill and it wasn’t an abnormality she was ready to share with strangers. But already a hand was on her shoulder to rouse her away from hiding, and there were more gentle words, and she realised then that she was not even outside anymore. Her gaze did not stray to explore anything beyond those serious bespectacled eyes, though. How carefully she packaged herself inwards as she shifted slowly up, still tucked into herself by the time she was sat upright, one knee to chest, the blanket still strung across her shoulders. Someone must have found her, after… after…
One hand absently rubbed at her ankle, which itched, the skin an angry red.
“-- had an accident, young lady,” he was saying, words heavily accented, but enunciated slow. “You speak English, yes? Do you know your name? Can you tell me where you are?”
Thalia’s thoughts never churned quickly at the best of times, and for a moment she was abjectly terrified that this man held her future in his hands; that wrong answers would slam like the bars of a cage, returning her to Moscow or a hospital or worse. Heat rimmed her wide eyes -- because everything was in fact entirely nebulous, and she didn’t know how to tell him that it was normal for her. Memories fought and crashed like waves, drenching her in feeling with no discernible answer or cause. He was going to watch her drown. But as she frantically picked through the driftwood of his questions, she realised he hadn’t actually asked her what had happened, and that he had no way of knowing the kaleidoscope nature of her insides.
“Of course I do,” she said eventually. “And I know I’m on Olkhon, so I guess this must be somewhere in the village? But I didn’t fall asleep here. I was by the Rock. I was by the lake.”
The doctor grunted acceptance of that answer, which was apparently proof enough of her sensibility, for he looked at her now like she was naught but a child crept errant from her bed in the middle of the night for whatever he supposed must have landed her in this mess. “She seems lucid enough,” he said as he took her chin in his cool fingers, and she did not look to see who he was talking to. She accepted the brief examination that followed in silence but for the questions he interjected. Did she feel nauseous? Did everything look normal? No double vision? But all the while she could feel the need swelling like a breath she desperately held, and it was a far worse feeling than the pain in her head, or how much blood she suddenly realised there was, until she was desperate for the excuse to pull away. At one point the doctor twisted over one of her hands, but though his lips twitched a frown, he said nothing about the second-skin bandage covering the burns. For reasons she couldn’t define, the sight of the symbol spiked her pulse to panic.
“You’re lucky, you know. No stitches required for the head. Did you slip and fall? Let’s get you cleaned up, then.” He sighed and groaned as he pushed himself up, hands on his thighs. She heard the creaky cracks of his bones as she watched him rise, and the distraction of relief unfurled as she recognised the escape. Calmer waters beckoned.
“Oh, it’s okay, really -- I can do that for myself,” she said, shifting out of the blanket. “I just need my--” Her gaze finally swept the room, because what she really meant was I can do that for myself afterwards. After the sketches had leaked all the way out and she felt a little more herself, only for that she needed the pencil and pad in her bag -- assuming whoever lugged her from the lakeside thought to bring it (and god, what if they hadn’t?). She meant to do it quickly; find her belongings, extricate herself, hope she wasn’t really dizzy when she finally stood. There had to be a bathroom, right?
But curiosity snagged like rocks for her first glimpse beyond the doctor’s frowning face. Amidst the quaint furnishings she discovered two large dogs (they weren’t dogs) and a woman with long dark hair, before smooth sailing met a sudden riptide and the final set of constellation eyes widened her own as round as they could possibly go. Everything stilled on the point of that recognition. The doctor was talking again, but this time she didn’t hear it.
“It’s you,” she said. Not that she knew who you precisely was beyond lines and shade on a page. He looked different in a way she hadn’t encountered before though; less refined, more real. No ink curved his cheek, the tangle of his beard wilder, the braid of his hair above shaved sides not so kempt. He was smaller, too. Surprise softened her expression, but her heart beat madly; no longer the fear Patricus had snuffed with his acerbic certainty, but certainly it left her in sudden freefall. She’d come to Baikal looking for a monster, not a man, but she didn’t know what to do with either discovery.
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)