03-23-2020, 10:50 PM
Nimeda almost clapped for the charm of his reaction, for he appeared enthralled by the secret she shared with him. Her eyes rose to drink it in herself, cheeks raised to the dappled sunlight. Fresh flowers wove themselves back into her hair, dried now in frizzy ringlets on whim, or perhaps in reaction to this place and his venerable conduct. He stepped among the trees; treated them like dear brothers, and for some reason that pleased her immeasurably.
Anendingcomesanendingcomesanendingcomes. She closed her eyes to that spark, but he was already turning away and back to her. Curiosity lit her wide gaze. Did he hear them whispering too? That was not unique, but it was new.
While she was still processing it he was speaking, the lilt of his words like the flow of the river. So much she could explain, if she could only find words, but the poignancy on the tip of her tongue danced back beneath the waves. Such strange kinship. He recognised something visitors rarely did, which meant he could not be only a simple visitor.
Nim didn’t stop him reaching for her hand; she was rarely inclined to reject kind touch despite unfamiliarity. She blinked at the forgotten scar and tried to parse some sense from the question. Though she was aware of her own oddness to some degree, she rarely attempted to order herself for others. Jon elicited it sometimes (Jon was gone) in an effort to please. There was some distant memory of one for whom she had also felt the same way, but perhaps of an older time. She felt it now though. Her brow knit. “Where? When? I don’t know.” She shrugged, truthful, but not distressed. It was too difficult to answer, or contain. “But my name is Nimeda.”
Names were inconsequential to her, a frilly dressing on a timeless soul, but they often pleased others -- and she did want to please him. “What did you see?”
Anendingcomesanendingcomesanendingcomes. She closed her eyes to that spark, but he was already turning away and back to her. Curiosity lit her wide gaze. Did he hear them whispering too? That was not unique, but it was new.
While she was still processing it he was speaking, the lilt of his words like the flow of the river. So much she could explain, if she could only find words, but the poignancy on the tip of her tongue danced back beneath the waves. Such strange kinship. He recognised something visitors rarely did, which meant he could not be only a simple visitor.
Nim didn’t stop him reaching for her hand; she was rarely inclined to reject kind touch despite unfamiliarity. She blinked at the forgotten scar and tried to parse some sense from the question. Though she was aware of her own oddness to some degree, she rarely attempted to order herself for others. Jon elicited it sometimes (Jon was gone) in an effort to please. There was some distant memory of one for whom she had also felt the same way, but perhaps of an older time. She felt it now though. Her brow knit. “Where? When? I don’t know.” She shrugged, truthful, but not distressed. It was too difficult to answer, or contain. “But my name is Nimeda.”
Names were inconsequential to her, a frilly dressing on a timeless soul, but they often pleased others -- and she did want to please him. “What did you see?”