05-03-2019, 07:10 PM
The buzz had been her wallet’s dying breath. Thalia had little more than spare clothes and art supplies in her bag; certainly nothing sufficient for spending a night out of doors. Shadows marched alongside as she trudged back along the path she had made, squinting for a hint of the town’s lights in the distance, and discovering nothing. It would be full dark by the time she made it back, she wagered. If. With a frown she hoisted the bag back up her shoulder. Concern squirmed, tamped down. She hummed to herself as she walked, some half-forgotten tune she could not name. And tried not to think about what might watch from the dark.
(or why she thought there might be anything at all)
Chance took her the same path, past a cottage she had barely noticed the first time. Aylin’s warnings rang like chimes in her head as she hesitated, fingers running over the dead tech in her pocket, and yet still she paused. One glance behind at the gleaming throes of sunset waged war between two sets of doubt. It was a foolish trust, to bargain on the kindness of strangers, but she still knocked softly on the door. Uncertainty plagued her expression, but it warmed into a smile when the door creaked on its hinges.
“Sorry,” she hedged, biting her lip. Her fingers uncurled to offer the unresponsive screen of her wallet. “I’m a bit. Well, I’m a bit lost.”
The woman frowned, gaze fluttering over Thalia’s head. She spoke in the lilting tones of her own language, eyes narrowed upon the apparent lack of comprehension, until finally complaining, “English, english,” in a somewhat disparaging tone. “Alone?” she questioned. Then clicked her tongue and pulled the door wider. “City folk.”
Stranger’s house or no, Thalia slept like the very dead that night, the exhaustion of travel pulled up like a warm blanket over her head. Bars of early morning light woke her like an urgent shake of the shoulder. A familiar itch crawled all along her forearms, almost like pain, and she rolled over blearily, reaching out a questing grasp for her bag. Any scrap of blank paper would do to relieve the pressure.
She paid little attention to the scribblings as she sat cross-legged amongst her sleep-mussed blankets, bent over her sketchbook, hair wild about her face. Some demanded more detail than others, but none pulled with any more than the usual intensity. She yawned into her hand. Nox’s words haunted, but she purposefully closed the book once the ritual was complete. Instead she retrieved the folded sheet she’d torn from the old book at home, smoothing it out across her lap like every line was not already emblazoned to memory.
The cottage was rustic, as one might expect of someone who chose to live so far outside town. Charms hung from beams across the ceiling and the wood floors warmed underfoot by thick rugs. Her gaze washed against everything curiously, though she did not wish to appear nosy. She longed to pause over the shelves, run her fingers along the spines of books, or peer at the faces immortalised in frames, but tangled her hands in a tighter grip over her shoulder straps instead. The woman was in the kitchen, caught in a lattice of morning light as she tidied away. Pale hair framed a severe face as she turned, a bare nod offered in greeting. Kindness did not have to be worn on the sleeve, and Thalia smiled nonetheless. “Ai-ta,” she said. Thank you, or what she hoped the word to be in Estonian.
“Aitäh,” the woman corrected. “You need directions back to Viljandi?”
Thalia shook her head, mostly since she did not plan on returning to the town until later. Explaining that seemed unnecessary, though, and now her wallet held a full charge she was unlikely to get lost. The woman’s attention lingered a moment longer, inscrutable, before she gestured a hand at the table. A bowl and spoon awaited alongside a glass of water, the other place settings already cleared away. “Then eat before you go.”
Surprise flickered for the extra hospitality, unexpected given the reserved nature of the dwelling’s mistress. Thalia’s expression lit with genuine warmth as she slipped gratefully into a chair. “Aitäh,” she tried again, carefully. “I really mean it. I think I last remembered to eat in Tapa, yesterday afternoon. Your country is beautiful, by the way.” It looked a lot like porridge, but tasted like something else entirely; much finer in texture. Mixed berries sweetened the tartness. When asked, the woman only called it kama.
She cleared her own bowl when finished, and did not linger. The sun was cold and bright outside. For a moment she stood disorientated, struck by the absurdity of why she was here, so very far from home -- on the trust of little more than blind instinct. Uncertainty beat in her chest, like such intangible motivation might slip through her fingers before she could truly harness it; that she would be left with the ashes of something that just sounded plain crazy. Aylin was going to have a mountain of questions, and Thalia wasn’t convinced she would have any answers.
Noise broke the spell.
She twisted where she stood, and watched a man setting up ladders by the side of the house. A tray of paint glistened on a workbench alongside; such a mundane intrusion to the chaos of her thoughts, it calmed her abruptly. She hadn’t seen him last night, but then she had more-or-less crashed out the moment succor was assured. He was as blonde as the woman inside, though it seemed a common enough trait of the country. Far fewer lines crowded his face, but for the pinch of concentration between his brows.
Thalia paused.
She knew she needed the daylight, yet she still approached, dropping her rucksack at her feet. This family offered sanctuary; it was the least she could do to pass the kindness on. A morning’s work hardly was too much to ask, and something stirred when she looked at the shadows creeping the edges of his expression like the promise of rain on a clear day.
“Can I help?”
He was already halfway up the ladder when he peered down at the intrusion. The weight of his stare might have flayed the skin from her bones, the resemblance of both appearance and mannerism suggesting perhaps he was the woman’s son. Probably Thalia could have taken greater care of her appearance, but since she planned to spend most of the day navigating the forest it seemed a pointless indulgence. She’d braided the hair away from her face, but left the rest a wild tangle down her back. A scrub of water at the sink pinked her cheeks clean, but it was far from a sud-soaked shower. It made her a little uncomfortable, despite that she doubted the scrutiny had anything to do with what she looked like.
“The visitor,” he said. “Eha says you are the strangest apple on the tree.”
Thalia’s lips quirked an amused smile. She took no offense. “I work in Moscow as an artist. I’m just travelling.”
He offered no response, though something flickered behind his eyes. He indicated she help herself to a brush.
It was afternoon by the time she found herself released from the chore. Koit did not speak much, yet the silence was surprisingly comfortable. Something intuitive kept her from disturbing those still waters, for she certainly had no problems creating idle conversation if she’d suspected simple shyness. Every now and then she stole glances at his expression, and if she could not quite press a finger to what she perceived, it slithered like a sad knot in her chest. By the time the second wall was complete, he plucked the brush from her hand to shoo her on her way.
“You won’t make it back to town if you spend all afternoon helping me paint.”
He was right, and she had something else she needed to do first too. Indecision captured her expression before the offer of a small smile won a beam from hers. She heaved the bag to her shoulder, uncaring of the paint staining her hands.
An hour passed to the trust of some inexplicable instinct. The sun peeked warm through the trees, and Thalia did not think on much beyond the pleasant cast it left on her skin. Water trickled a distant melody long before she really became conscious of it, and by then she could practically see the sluggish trail of its grey body ahead. She followed it upstream, watching the glitter of its surface like she watched the expression of an old friend, until wonder filled up her expression. Her skin prickled.
She crouched, staring out wide-eyed at the water; at the plants crowded at its banks, at the sliver of sky above. Wind caressed like a welcome.
“Hello, you impossible thing.”
The drawings of people she could almost explain away; Moscow teemed with them, enough to perhaps seep unnoticed into her subconscious and leak out later. But this was a landscape she had never seen before, the river’s overgrown banks not a tourist spot she might have noted in a travel brochure. Sat cross-legged in the grass, she pulled the drawing from her bag and smoothed the crumpled paper out. A shiver cooled, more awe than fear. Impossible. And yet real all the same, in every line and cast of shadow. Proof, but only to her.
Even so the page fluttered quickly unnoticed under her fingertips, her attention caught on something infinitely stranger. Narrowing her gaze on those grey depths, something stirred like plucked strings within. Like seeking like. Charmed she edged closer, finding her feet. It called. She was a strong swimmer, but it was still a mad idea. Once captured, though, she had a hard time letting it go. Her heart hammered as she toed against the bank, unfurling her new sense out into the waters. Something was down there. Wonder stole what wisdom remained.
She hooked her bag on a tree branch, draping her jacket overtop. Discarded her boots and wiggled from her jeans. No caution tempered her. She dived clean in. Despite the warm day the water welcomed her with a bone-chilling grasp, running cold and curious fingers over her Spring-warmed skin. She kicked down further, blinded by the churn of mud and grit, yet unafraid of the dark. Whim tried to coax small lanterns with her gift, but her concentration failed beneath the greater lure of that feeling. Of something familiar. One hand braced against the riverbed. She reached out, questing with the other, until her palm lay flat against something hard and smooth, her fingers curling over the angles of a lid.
Then pain flamed hot.
Surprised bubbles zipped from her mouth as she yanked back. Panic seized. She fought hard for the surface, head breaking gasping and coughing against the water sucked in. Her hand throbbed like her whole heart writhed in the centre of her palm as she swam for the bank, gripping tight against land with the other, squeezing the grass and mud like relief. She heaved herself out, yelping when her weight touched the wound unthinking. Her arm gave way.
“Shit.” She pressed her forehead into the dirt for a moment to steel against the pain before she tried again, this time careful. At the tree she yanked on her jacket, regretting the thoughtlessness of her plan now she realised she had little to dry herself with. And finally forced her gaze to the ruin of her palm, raised red like a strange paint splatter. She held it at the wrist like she could somehow divorce herself from the thrumming agony, aghast and confused and in awe.
(or why she thought there might be anything at all)
Chance took her the same path, past a cottage she had barely noticed the first time. Aylin’s warnings rang like chimes in her head as she hesitated, fingers running over the dead tech in her pocket, and yet still she paused. One glance behind at the gleaming throes of sunset waged war between two sets of doubt. It was a foolish trust, to bargain on the kindness of strangers, but she still knocked softly on the door. Uncertainty plagued her expression, but it warmed into a smile when the door creaked on its hinges.
“Sorry,” she hedged, biting her lip. Her fingers uncurled to offer the unresponsive screen of her wallet. “I’m a bit. Well, I’m a bit lost.”
The woman frowned, gaze fluttering over Thalia’s head. She spoke in the lilting tones of her own language, eyes narrowed upon the apparent lack of comprehension, until finally complaining, “English, english,” in a somewhat disparaging tone. “Alone?” she questioned. Then clicked her tongue and pulled the door wider. “City folk.”
Stranger’s house or no, Thalia slept like the very dead that night, the exhaustion of travel pulled up like a warm blanket over her head. Bars of early morning light woke her like an urgent shake of the shoulder. A familiar itch crawled all along her forearms, almost like pain, and she rolled over blearily, reaching out a questing grasp for her bag. Any scrap of blank paper would do to relieve the pressure.
She paid little attention to the scribblings as she sat cross-legged amongst her sleep-mussed blankets, bent over her sketchbook, hair wild about her face. Some demanded more detail than others, but none pulled with any more than the usual intensity. She yawned into her hand. Nox’s words haunted, but she purposefully closed the book once the ritual was complete. Instead she retrieved the folded sheet she’d torn from the old book at home, smoothing it out across her lap like every line was not already emblazoned to memory.
The cottage was rustic, as one might expect of someone who chose to live so far outside town. Charms hung from beams across the ceiling and the wood floors warmed underfoot by thick rugs. Her gaze washed against everything curiously, though she did not wish to appear nosy. She longed to pause over the shelves, run her fingers along the spines of books, or peer at the faces immortalised in frames, but tangled her hands in a tighter grip over her shoulder straps instead. The woman was in the kitchen, caught in a lattice of morning light as she tidied away. Pale hair framed a severe face as she turned, a bare nod offered in greeting. Kindness did not have to be worn on the sleeve, and Thalia smiled nonetheless. “Ai-ta,” she said. Thank you, or what she hoped the word to be in Estonian.
“Aitäh,” the woman corrected. “You need directions back to Viljandi?”
Thalia shook her head, mostly since she did not plan on returning to the town until later. Explaining that seemed unnecessary, though, and now her wallet held a full charge she was unlikely to get lost. The woman’s attention lingered a moment longer, inscrutable, before she gestured a hand at the table. A bowl and spoon awaited alongside a glass of water, the other place settings already cleared away. “Then eat before you go.”
Surprise flickered for the extra hospitality, unexpected given the reserved nature of the dwelling’s mistress. Thalia’s expression lit with genuine warmth as she slipped gratefully into a chair. “Aitäh,” she tried again, carefully. “I really mean it. I think I last remembered to eat in Tapa, yesterday afternoon. Your country is beautiful, by the way.” It looked a lot like porridge, but tasted like something else entirely; much finer in texture. Mixed berries sweetened the tartness. When asked, the woman only called it kama.
She cleared her own bowl when finished, and did not linger. The sun was cold and bright outside. For a moment she stood disorientated, struck by the absurdity of why she was here, so very far from home -- on the trust of little more than blind instinct. Uncertainty beat in her chest, like such intangible motivation might slip through her fingers before she could truly harness it; that she would be left with the ashes of something that just sounded plain crazy. Aylin was going to have a mountain of questions, and Thalia wasn’t convinced she would have any answers.
Noise broke the spell.
She twisted where she stood, and watched a man setting up ladders by the side of the house. A tray of paint glistened on a workbench alongside; such a mundane intrusion to the chaos of her thoughts, it calmed her abruptly. She hadn’t seen him last night, but then she had more-or-less crashed out the moment succor was assured. He was as blonde as the woman inside, though it seemed a common enough trait of the country. Far fewer lines crowded his face, but for the pinch of concentration between his brows.
Thalia paused.
She knew she needed the daylight, yet she still approached, dropping her rucksack at her feet. This family offered sanctuary; it was the least she could do to pass the kindness on. A morning’s work hardly was too much to ask, and something stirred when she looked at the shadows creeping the edges of his expression like the promise of rain on a clear day.
“Can I help?”
He was already halfway up the ladder when he peered down at the intrusion. The weight of his stare might have flayed the skin from her bones, the resemblance of both appearance and mannerism suggesting perhaps he was the woman’s son. Probably Thalia could have taken greater care of her appearance, but since she planned to spend most of the day navigating the forest it seemed a pointless indulgence. She’d braided the hair away from her face, but left the rest a wild tangle down her back. A scrub of water at the sink pinked her cheeks clean, but it was far from a sud-soaked shower. It made her a little uncomfortable, despite that she doubted the scrutiny had anything to do with what she looked like.
“The visitor,” he said. “Eha says you are the strangest apple on the tree.”
Thalia’s lips quirked an amused smile. She took no offense. “I work in Moscow as an artist. I’m just travelling.”
He offered no response, though something flickered behind his eyes. He indicated she help herself to a brush.
It was afternoon by the time she found herself released from the chore. Koit did not speak much, yet the silence was surprisingly comfortable. Something intuitive kept her from disturbing those still waters, for she certainly had no problems creating idle conversation if she’d suspected simple shyness. Every now and then she stole glances at his expression, and if she could not quite press a finger to what she perceived, it slithered like a sad knot in her chest. By the time the second wall was complete, he plucked the brush from her hand to shoo her on her way.
“You won’t make it back to town if you spend all afternoon helping me paint.”
He was right, and she had something else she needed to do first too. Indecision captured her expression before the offer of a small smile won a beam from hers. She heaved the bag to her shoulder, uncaring of the paint staining her hands.
An hour passed to the trust of some inexplicable instinct. The sun peeked warm through the trees, and Thalia did not think on much beyond the pleasant cast it left on her skin. Water trickled a distant melody long before she really became conscious of it, and by then she could practically see the sluggish trail of its grey body ahead. She followed it upstream, watching the glitter of its surface like she watched the expression of an old friend, until wonder filled up her expression. Her skin prickled.
She crouched, staring out wide-eyed at the water; at the plants crowded at its banks, at the sliver of sky above. Wind caressed like a welcome.
“Hello, you impossible thing.”
The drawings of people she could almost explain away; Moscow teemed with them, enough to perhaps seep unnoticed into her subconscious and leak out later. But this was a landscape she had never seen before, the river’s overgrown banks not a tourist spot she might have noted in a travel brochure. Sat cross-legged in the grass, she pulled the drawing from her bag and smoothed the crumpled paper out. A shiver cooled, more awe than fear. Impossible. And yet real all the same, in every line and cast of shadow. Proof, but only to her.
Even so the page fluttered quickly unnoticed under her fingertips, her attention caught on something infinitely stranger. Narrowing her gaze on those grey depths, something stirred like plucked strings within. Like seeking like. Charmed she edged closer, finding her feet. It called. She was a strong swimmer, but it was still a mad idea. Once captured, though, she had a hard time letting it go. Her heart hammered as she toed against the bank, unfurling her new sense out into the waters. Something was down there. Wonder stole what wisdom remained.
She hooked her bag on a tree branch, draping her jacket overtop. Discarded her boots and wiggled from her jeans. No caution tempered her. She dived clean in. Despite the warm day the water welcomed her with a bone-chilling grasp, running cold and curious fingers over her Spring-warmed skin. She kicked down further, blinded by the churn of mud and grit, yet unafraid of the dark. Whim tried to coax small lanterns with her gift, but her concentration failed beneath the greater lure of that feeling. Of something familiar. One hand braced against the riverbed. She reached out, questing with the other, until her palm lay flat against something hard and smooth, her fingers curling over the angles of a lid.
Then pain flamed hot.
Surprised bubbles zipped from her mouth as she yanked back. Panic seized. She fought hard for the surface, head breaking gasping and coughing against the water sucked in. Her hand throbbed like her whole heart writhed in the centre of her palm as she swam for the bank, gripping tight against land with the other, squeezing the grass and mud like relief. She heaved herself out, yelping when her weight touched the wound unthinking. Her arm gave way.
“Shit.” She pressed her forehead into the dirt for a moment to steel against the pain before she tried again, this time careful. At the tree she yanked on her jacket, regretting the thoughtlessness of her plan now she realised she had little to dry herself with. And finally forced her gaze to the ruin of her palm, raised red like a strange paint splatter. She held it at the wrist like she could somehow divorce herself from the thrumming agony, aghast and confused and in awe.