12-04-2022, 09:13 PM
Listening to him talk was like being guided by the steady hands of a riverbank. Thalia did not even understand all the words he used, but it tumbled images about in her head like the flipped pages of a storybook. Victors tell the stories, she wanted to say, but did not desire to interrupt the flow of his drumbeat voice or the deep and ancient resolution of his heritage. Tristan spoke with such certainty that she never questioned it as truth, however it might have sounded in other circumstances. But it wasn't the curiosity and awe she had felt when Nox had told her how her drawing of the ijiraq was real, tearing like a veil from her eyes to reveal a strange and frightening new world. It was the stir of something older, something forgotten, and the understanding of it came upon her far more gently.
For Thalia had always known that this Other world was real.
When she looked back it was to a good childhood, but it was one riddled through with holes. Her entire life she’d plugged such absences with mundane explanations, until truth and fiction were indistinguishable. In that way her life was erased and rebuilt a thousand times, the cycle repeated, until she blurred all those odd edges of herself into something that passed for normal. Apart from her drawings at least, and those she had simply hidden from everyone but her sister. Sometimes she still couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what was not; was not sure of the things she had really seen. Like Yana.
Gods how much of her life had she already forgotten?
Would she forget this too?
Talk of fate paused to shiver something cold in her, and she didn’t want to know why. The Sisters guarded their work jealously, and if a sliver of thread could be spied of the tapestry ahead, it was usually only enough to loop a noose. Nothing good ever came from that glimpse into the future. A lesson Thalia was beginning to learn for herself.
Soon after she wasn’t thinking any of that at all, though. She certainly did not regret Tristan’s being, either.
She’d imagined he might crack like stone, or disperse as a constellation scattered cruelly to the night sky. But if this was all the throes of her dying mind, she desired to pass happy rather than afraid of what was to come. The warmth of his mouth convinced her quickly enough that this was real, though. His skin was weatherworn beneath her fingertips, the kind of detail a sketch omitted. It sped her heart. She wondered if he might recoil; probably not unkindly, but like she’d done something entirely inappropriate. He had not given any indication of interest in her that way. But it wasn’t why she kissed him.
She kissed him because he was so unfathomably strange and unapologetic for it, and it was a world she wanted to find a place inside. She kissed him because she believed soulfully in cross-roads and small, insignificant destinies, and this one filled her with a vital appreciation for the here-and-now. She kissed him because she wanted a memory that would not fade when they returned to the brightly structured world above.
He responded with affection as softly as summer rain, unexpected and pleasant both. Thalia let it soak her through. Letting go was easy for her. The gift of acceptance blossomed in her a vitality for living, and she was unguarded in tenderness, in the giving or in the seeking.
“The gods are wrong, and we do not need their pity,” she told him before the words were lost. A fierce current lay underneath, but it was shared through sweeter breaths and the secrets of brushed lips. None deserved pity as their due. Everyone deserved their time anew and washed clean; not even blood had a right to stain so deep. But cruelty did not weigh on balanced scales. If a dire fate awaited, as she did not doubt, then the sustenance to withstand could only come from living fully and well while the chance remained. “You are worthy, Vanagandyr,” she reminded softly.
Temperance guided the sweetness of his kiss, but he did not stop either. Thalia didn’t remember the dream, but she had not woken up from it unaffected. Those feelings warmed in her with rootless abandon, even as Tristan was as careful of her a butterfly alighted on the tip of his finger. If his touch trailed it was as though he thought the callouses themselves might leave bruises on her cheeks, but her skin beneath the blanket’s cocoon was warm and still-damp and electric, and she had never been the sort to consider fear before curiosity. The bruises already existing testified to that.
Languorous with distraction she shifted, until like waves eroding rocks to smooth pebbles she found herself in the seat of his lap. Thalia wasn’t shy in the seeking, but if she was a force of nature it was a malleable one. His beard tickled a smile to her lips. Fingers trailed the back of his neck but did not seek to cage. She could feel the heat of the flames against her back, even through the blanket cascading across her shoulders, but it was warmer in the space between them. The light made beacons of his eyes and fathomless depths of hers.
“Live with me,” was all she said, somewhere between urge and question. She would led him by the hand, like the fragrant rush of a river, but she would not take what he was not prepared to give.
For Thalia had always known that this Other world was real.
When she looked back it was to a good childhood, but it was one riddled through with holes. Her entire life she’d plugged such absences with mundane explanations, until truth and fiction were indistinguishable. In that way her life was erased and rebuilt a thousand times, the cycle repeated, until she blurred all those odd edges of herself into something that passed for normal. Apart from her drawings at least, and those she had simply hidden from everyone but her sister. Sometimes she still couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what was not; was not sure of the things she had really seen. Like Yana.
Gods how much of her life had she already forgotten?
Would she forget this too?
Talk of fate paused to shiver something cold in her, and she didn’t want to know why. The Sisters guarded their work jealously, and if a sliver of thread could be spied of the tapestry ahead, it was usually only enough to loop a noose. Nothing good ever came from that glimpse into the future. A lesson Thalia was beginning to learn for herself.
Soon after she wasn’t thinking any of that at all, though. She certainly did not regret Tristan’s being, either.
She’d imagined he might crack like stone, or disperse as a constellation scattered cruelly to the night sky. But if this was all the throes of her dying mind, she desired to pass happy rather than afraid of what was to come. The warmth of his mouth convinced her quickly enough that this was real, though. His skin was weatherworn beneath her fingertips, the kind of detail a sketch omitted. It sped her heart. She wondered if he might recoil; probably not unkindly, but like she’d done something entirely inappropriate. He had not given any indication of interest in her that way. But it wasn’t why she kissed him.
She kissed him because he was so unfathomably strange and unapologetic for it, and it was a world she wanted to find a place inside. She kissed him because she believed soulfully in cross-roads and small, insignificant destinies, and this one filled her with a vital appreciation for the here-and-now. She kissed him because she wanted a memory that would not fade when they returned to the brightly structured world above.
He responded with affection as softly as summer rain, unexpected and pleasant both. Thalia let it soak her through. Letting go was easy for her. The gift of acceptance blossomed in her a vitality for living, and she was unguarded in tenderness, in the giving or in the seeking.
“The gods are wrong, and we do not need their pity,” she told him before the words were lost. A fierce current lay underneath, but it was shared through sweeter breaths and the secrets of brushed lips. None deserved pity as their due. Everyone deserved their time anew and washed clean; not even blood had a right to stain so deep. But cruelty did not weigh on balanced scales. If a dire fate awaited, as she did not doubt, then the sustenance to withstand could only come from living fully and well while the chance remained. “You are worthy, Vanagandyr,” she reminded softly.
Temperance guided the sweetness of his kiss, but he did not stop either. Thalia didn’t remember the dream, but she had not woken up from it unaffected. Those feelings warmed in her with rootless abandon, even as Tristan was as careful of her a butterfly alighted on the tip of his finger. If his touch trailed it was as though he thought the callouses themselves might leave bruises on her cheeks, but her skin beneath the blanket’s cocoon was warm and still-damp and electric, and she had never been the sort to consider fear before curiosity. The bruises already existing testified to that.
Languorous with distraction she shifted, until like waves eroding rocks to smooth pebbles she found herself in the seat of his lap. Thalia wasn’t shy in the seeking, but if she was a force of nature it was a malleable one. His beard tickled a smile to her lips. Fingers trailed the back of his neck but did not seek to cage. She could feel the heat of the flames against her back, even through the blanket cascading across her shoulders, but it was warmer in the space between them. The light made beacons of his eyes and fathomless depths of hers.
“Live with me,” was all she said, somewhere between urge and question. She would led him by the hand, like the fragrant rush of a river, but she would not take what he was not prepared to give.
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)