08-17-2021, 09:47 PM
He woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding. The dream’s remnant clung to him like a cold second-skin, as terrifying as the nightmares he hadn’t had in earnest since the seer read his fortune as a boy. Sören peeled free of the damp blankets and shoved himself up, arcing his legs out of the bed and planting them firm on the floor to stop the trembling. The dorm was still quiet, bathed in the grey light of obscenely early morning. His hand shook before he balled it tight, wrenching the runes into his charge. The power fed his sense of control, flooding him calm like the first hit of a most potent drug. Ragged breathing stilled, slowly.
As the panic began to recede, details of the dream firmed, and he parsed through it all doggedly as he stared at empty shadows. Not a recollection of the images he had seen in the swirling waters, which drained the blood from his very soul. He didn’t know how Nimeda had done that. He didn’t know she could do that.
And he didn’t want to think about it now.
The rest, though.
He’d explored the island’s dream visage for much the same reason he had visited Roopkund on the flight to India. For thought, solitude, and perspective. What he hadn't intended was to risk reminding Thalia of his face. They’d never met this side of the dream, despite that his support carved the bedrock of her career -- to her he was just a name, and an alias at that -- but he knew how she reacted when the ink of her sketches revealed itself in flesh and blood realness. He’d do what was necessary to retrieve what she had stolen, and with no compunction to conscience if it proved the only path. The threats he made to Nimeda were not idle. He preferred efficiency, though. Scaring Thalia was a careless bridge to burn. Fear complicated things exponentially.
It wasn’t the only complication, of course. It wasn’t even the first one to plague his waking thoughts.
A hand scrubbed his face.
Would Nimeda hurt a child? He didn’t know the answer to that. Not intentionally, perhaps, but very little of her vague nature ever seemed intentional. It wasn’t a comfort.
He plucked his phone into his grasp. Marked the time, then admitted the gesture for a lie. No one had returned his call. Perhaps Zhenya grew wise to the tactic. Not that she had ever stopped him. Not that she even ever would. If he called her now, she would answer; he knew that as sure and true as he knew his own bones, but he did not like how it made him feel.
Stalemate, then.
Sören dropped the wallet onto the sheets, pressed a hand over his damp hair, and tore his thoughts away.
He considered that Thalia might be hurt. Blood coated her face in the dream, and he had never seen Nimeda so attired, so incorporeal, or so powerful and reckless. Even if he was so minded, by the time he crossed the lake to the island and hunted down the rock by which the dream had taken place, the time for help would be long since past. A shame in a way. She might have looked kindly on a saviour, solving at least one problem, though perhaps only the least of them.
His options narrowed, and with it the way grew clearer.
Truth was he’d chosen this hostel because he’d seen Kemala talking to the artist at the lakeside; knew they had exchanged contact information. At the time it had seemed a fair gamble while he deliberated which path to chase at the crossroad. Elias was here somewhere too, hounding his own spectre; another resource to be wrung if needed, but also a source of competition. Sören knew for a certainty now that the water creature was here, and with it the object it guarded. It called to him, and strongly. To ignore it would be a mockery of Declan’s ghost; solving this riddle was the sinew of Sören’s very soul. And for now, he realised, Kemala was the key to either path. Thalia or the creature.
A shower woke him up, though darkness still chased the hollows beneath his eyes. A razor cleaned the lines of his jaw, and his hair was yet damp when he emerged, tracing faint trickles into the collar of his shirt. His bag was slung loose over one shoulder, leaving nothing behind for later retrieval. The hostel had facilities to safely leave valuables, but Sören made no assumptions of returning here. The cool slap of air greeted beyond the threshold. A new day unfolded. Given the night’s frustrations, he welcomed it.
Kemala was already waiting outside. Sören did not find the punctuality surprising, but it was gratifying not to be kept dangling on the promise of aid for mere sport. She was smaller than he had really realised from her curled perch the previous night, which perhaps accounted for the sweep of his gaze. For a moment he recalled the story she had told, of one lone figure stood against the rage of an ocean. Whether he believed or not was immaterial. Either way, the resultant smile was brief. He did not pause for niceties. He expected that she would follow.
“Have you eaten yet? I plan to purchase supplies enough for a daytrip before we look for boat hire, so we have time if you wish it.”
As the panic began to recede, details of the dream firmed, and he parsed through it all doggedly as he stared at empty shadows. Not a recollection of the images he had seen in the swirling waters, which drained the blood from his very soul. He didn’t know how Nimeda had done that. He didn’t know she could do that.
And he didn’t want to think about it now.
The rest, though.
He’d explored the island’s dream visage for much the same reason he had visited Roopkund on the flight to India. For thought, solitude, and perspective. What he hadn't intended was to risk reminding Thalia of his face. They’d never met this side of the dream, despite that his support carved the bedrock of her career -- to her he was just a name, and an alias at that -- but he knew how she reacted when the ink of her sketches revealed itself in flesh and blood realness. He’d do what was necessary to retrieve what she had stolen, and with no compunction to conscience if it proved the only path. The threats he made to Nimeda were not idle. He preferred efficiency, though. Scaring Thalia was a careless bridge to burn. Fear complicated things exponentially.
It wasn’t the only complication, of course. It wasn’t even the first one to plague his waking thoughts.
A hand scrubbed his face.
Would Nimeda hurt a child? He didn’t know the answer to that. Not intentionally, perhaps, but very little of her vague nature ever seemed intentional. It wasn’t a comfort.
He plucked his phone into his grasp. Marked the time, then admitted the gesture for a lie. No one had returned his call. Perhaps Zhenya grew wise to the tactic. Not that she had ever stopped him. Not that she even ever would. If he called her now, she would answer; he knew that as sure and true as he knew his own bones, but he did not like how it made him feel.
Stalemate, then.
Sören dropped the wallet onto the sheets, pressed a hand over his damp hair, and tore his thoughts away.
He considered that Thalia might be hurt. Blood coated her face in the dream, and he had never seen Nimeda so attired, so incorporeal, or so powerful and reckless. Even if he was so minded, by the time he crossed the lake to the island and hunted down the rock by which the dream had taken place, the time for help would be long since past. A shame in a way. She might have looked kindly on a saviour, solving at least one problem, though perhaps only the least of them.
His options narrowed, and with it the way grew clearer.
Truth was he’d chosen this hostel because he’d seen Kemala talking to the artist at the lakeside; knew they had exchanged contact information. At the time it had seemed a fair gamble while he deliberated which path to chase at the crossroad. Elias was here somewhere too, hounding his own spectre; another resource to be wrung if needed, but also a source of competition. Sören knew for a certainty now that the water creature was here, and with it the object it guarded. It called to him, and strongly. To ignore it would be a mockery of Declan’s ghost; solving this riddle was the sinew of Sören’s very soul. And for now, he realised, Kemala was the key to either path. Thalia or the creature.
A shower woke him up, though darkness still chased the hollows beneath his eyes. A razor cleaned the lines of his jaw, and his hair was yet damp when he emerged, tracing faint trickles into the collar of his shirt. His bag was slung loose over one shoulder, leaving nothing behind for later retrieval. The hostel had facilities to safely leave valuables, but Sören made no assumptions of returning here. The cool slap of air greeted beyond the threshold. A new day unfolded. Given the night’s frustrations, he welcomed it.
Kemala was already waiting outside. Sören did not find the punctuality surprising, but it was gratifying not to be kept dangling on the promise of aid for mere sport. She was smaller than he had really realised from her curled perch the previous night, which perhaps accounted for the sweep of his gaze. For a moment he recalled the story she had told, of one lone figure stood against the rage of an ocean. Whether he believed or not was immaterial. Either way, the resultant smile was brief. He did not pause for niceties. He expected that she would follow.
“Have you eaten yet? I plan to purchase supplies enough for a daytrip before we look for boat hire, so we have time if you wish it.”
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)