Alluvion

[Patricus I]

The whispers receded much as the flood waters that suddenly rose and vanished. Philip wasn’t sure if he remembered hearing them at all, and grasping the memory was unsuccessful yet onward the experience flowed. With the lay of her hands in his, he studied the ruined palm. The design meant something, but like many things he had dreamed this night, he did not comprehend. His brow furrowed thoughtfully at her question as the sequenced was relived. “I saw a refuge. A place of safety amidst the darkness. It is our only chance to survive, but the risk is great. Deviating even a whisper from the path of destiny and we will be extinguished.”

He broke the connection with the girl in order to return his hands to the aforementioned pockets. This place hid more than visions and said more than mutters. Like faith, he never attempted to decode the past, nor did he truly seek clairvoyance about the future. These things just happened, like the embrace of the girl, he did not deny them their work.

She offered a name that he would probably forget even if he never lost the color of her eyes or the ambiguity of her voice. “And I am—” he paused before issuing a similar moniker of self-identification. Was he Philip? Was he Patricus I? A priest? The Holy Father? Was he Christ himself? Here, within this realm of empty meanings, maybe he was both none and all of them at the same time.

Finally, as his gaze penetrated their surroundings, drinking in the immensity of this moment, a pacific expression settled, ”And my good lady, I am no one. I am nothing.”

[Thalia]

He studied the pattern on her hand, and she let him do so without complaint despite that it threatened to bring less pleasant memories to the fore. It blazed a warning, that mark; reminded her to try once more to leave a message for her Other, to run run run. But since the stranger did not comment beyond a cool glance, the consideration drifted for later consumption. Nim was too curious of the moment, and more than content to follow where he led. At least for the moment.

She leaned into his words. The proclamation shivered through her visibly, but her eyes never wavered from attention. “A refuge?” she whispered. “I see only the ending.”

He retreated, hands returned to the depths of his pockets. Nim was left blinking and remembering the green shoot burst from barren ground. Remembering the Grey Lady and her wind-tossed words. 

Though it felt like progress, the thought never circled to full conclusion. She half smiled at the gift offered in its wake, amusement twinkling her gaze for the strange sort of serendipity. It grew to pleasant laughter. “So was I,” she said. “Before. I’ve been many, but a long time nothing in between.” Her words tailed a little, anticipating the confusion most displayed for her riddles. It usually didn’t matter so much what others thought, but he seemed kind and his eyes saw. Tristan’s promises and betrayal soaked her mind with uncertainty. She forgave the wolf brother, of course, but it still stung how quickly he had abandoned her in the halls of the asylum.

A girl in a tower with no key.

Where did this stranger wake?

She bit her lip and made an unusual effort to focus. She could ask him for help on Mara’s behalf, or even her own (the scar, don’t forget the scar) but she wanted to do this first. “Nimeda was a gift to me from a friend,” she explained. “Could I offer the same? A gift?”

[Patricus I]

To be gifted a name, Philip contemplated. Dead parents bestowed his own until he chose his new one. What did she mean by many before? How many names did she have? Maybe she was a figment of many dreams? She seemed on the verge of asking a question, which he was willing to listen until it was abandoned. He wouldn’t chase it down. It was hers to pose when she was ready. In its place, an offer was raised. He liked gifts, and meticulously stored all of them to browse at leisure.

“You may,” he said. A proud smirk slicked his lips, infinitely curious to hear more.

[Thalia]

He paused to think about it and she schooled herself to patience while he did. Her own palms met, fingers laced. Whimsy aside, there were times Nimeda was easily channeled to an end, and while it was not her most natural state neither was it impossible within the right circumstance. Water that flowed where directed.

When his lips upturned her returning smile was preemptive, though she still waited for the words. She was an old creature; not the oldest thing that resided here, mind, and yet sometimes others still inclined her to an habitual reverence. The stranger lacked any sort of resonance, but he still had such a demeanour about him. Once permission was granted, her brows drew into contemplation. A small tease. She searched his face like perhaps the answers were hidden somewhere behind his gaze, but like most things she was guided first by instinct. If her memory was riddled with holes it was still very long.

“Then I’ll call you Noctua,” she said. Her eyes crinkled with the smile, sure he would find that acceptable (and liable to be bitterly disappointed if that were not the case). Not a random choice, though not one she was likely to be able to articulate. She would attempt if he wished it though. “For I think it suits you.”

[Patricus I]

Philip blinked, humorously unimpressed. “Moths? You’re naming me after moths?” His brows spiked high. For as insightful and resonant her soul, he had to say that he was expecting something else. Like most gifts, there were some he considered his favorites while others were quite confusing, but he rejected none. He wasn’t inclined to continue dwelling on what attributes of a moth she saw in him, so he took to a walk, assuming her company would follow.

After a short distance, the bubbling of a stream pricked their ears. Naturally, a sense of wariness settled as he approached. The last river that caught his attention literally swept them away with the blink of an eye. What may rise from this one remained to be seen. Until such time, he paused at the meager bank and studied the little undulations, bubbles, and ripples. The bottom of the stream was lined with pebbles. For no particular reason, he knelt and snatched one from the middle of the water. The stream was pleasantly cool, though the atmosphere was bereft of any discernable climate.

The rock turned over in his hand, and for a moment, the clothes on his back shifted to a white button-down shirt, halfway undone, swim trunks and sandals. By the time he was standing once more, the attire rearranged to the previously adorned track suit. He seemed oblivious to the flickering. The rock was unimpressive except perhaps for its smoothness.

He offered the trinket to Nimeda, and as he did, he asked a question. ”What happened to your hand?”

[Thalia]

He did not like it. Disappointment sank like a stone to the depths, though he was not horrible about it. Confusion sketched Nimeda’s expression before she realised he had no way of following the squiggling thread of her thoughts, but since he did not ask she volunteered no counter. He misunderstood the root of the name. It was nothing from this Age anyway.

She was deflated, but padded resolutely after him, for there seemed nothing else to do. No shoes adorned her feet, and she squeezed her toes into the dirt every now and then just for the pleasure of it. Thoughts unreeled, and her sense of contentment returned soon enough. Noctua led her home.

He peered into the waters like monsters lurked within. Perhaps they did. Such sparks of knowledge fluttered every now and then to the fore (what do you know of sea monsters?) but little in this world had the capability to instill true fear, and those protections generally extended to her company as she wished it. She watched him lean to pluck a stone, clothes shifting, a betrayal of whim. Her smile returned.

She accepted the pebble with a laugh, threw it once in the air and caught it in the bed of her palm. Then she dove, his question still ringing in her ears. Her grinning head surfaced mere moments later, awash with a simple happiness. Hair plastered to her skull. The flowers all spread joyously across the surface of the river. “I don’t know,” she admitted with a shrug. No modesty hinted for the flimsiness of her white dress, though only her shoulders peeped above the water. There was no sense of flirtation to her, just a careless sort of innocence. “It didn’t happen here, Noctua, it happened to my Other. I fear it means nothing good though.”

[Patricus I]

Whatever Nimeda’s injury, it did not seem to impede her motor skills. The rock was tossed lightly before she tossed herself into the water. Philip winced to catch her before realizing it was a purposeful jump. As it was, he remained on dry land, now-dry hands clasped in front of him as though he held something immensely fragile. When her head reappeared, hair plastered to her cheeks, whimsy tugged at the corners of his mouth. A strange duality existed within Nimeda that aged her roots deep and ancient while simultaneously budded youthful new shoots upon the surface. He liked her in the sort of way that forced paternal protectiveness, and he had to wonder at what danger she described was inflicted upon her while awake.

He liked water. At the Papal Palace of Castel Gandolfo where the Pontiff spent his summers, the grounds were positioned high on a hill above a lake. John Paul II had a pool built at the 400-year old estate to much controversy, but every Pope since him made sure to enjoy the watery escape, Patricus included. “May I show you somewhere, now?” he said. Wetness seeped up the velour of the tracksuit as he stepped ankle-deep into the creek. A smile asked that she trust him in turn, and he offered his hands.

He took a deep breath and when next he knew, bubbles spewed steadily from his lips. He was careful to open his eyes, expecting to find them exposed to submergence. White lines reflecting the presumed dream-light danced on the walls of the pool. Sound was almost fully stifled but to the steady exhalation of aforementioned bubbles. After a few moments of peace, he pushed off from the bottom, breaking the surface face-first.

After climbing from the pool, he was very aware of the suit plastered translucent against his skin. The first time he spoke to Nimeda she asked why a towel was needed, and as then, he let the thought fall away and the comfort of dry clothing returned quite promptly. Just in case, he made sure to avert his gaze from Nimeda’s body should similar virtue be compromised in her appearance.

A garden setting surrounded them. It was almost completely unchanged in seven-hundred years, and while not as old as the previous forest, it remained while the undulating waters of time flowed steadily onward. The pool was pristine blue, the hedges a complex pattern chest-high. Below them was situated Lake Albano and the small town of Castel Gandolfo.

“The oldest parts of this palace date to the thirteenth century,” he glanced at one of the buildings. “The gardens, though, they are much older. They once belonged to Roman Emperor Domitian two-thousand years ago.” He was unsure whether Nimeda appreciated these man-assigned passages of time. It passed so strangely in dreams. Had he slept five minutes or five hours? All he knew was he was unwilling yet to wake from it.

He turned back to Nimeda, fixing the penetration of his gaze upon her eyes alone. “Are you in danger, Nimeda? Tell me what happened to your hand,” she may not wish to speak on it, but Philip’s will was strong.

[Thalia]

Noctua did not join her in the waters, but a small smile tugged the edges of his wry lips, and even if it was only amusement for her own antics she was glad to see it. This world beckoned immeasurable freedom for those who understood its strangeness; not without risk, of course, but that only required a oneness. Despite the flickeringly brief desire to swim, she wondered if he was still afraid from the wild flooding, but she did not know how to explain that she would not let that happen now. Abruptly the currents changed direction, entirely unnatural. Her head tilted. But then he spoke and Nimeda grinned. 

She did not bother to wade from the waters, only appeared suddenly within the grasp of his outstretched palms. Noctua had a newness about him she did not think he would appreciate to hear, given his fatherly manner, and it could be foolish to trust the manipulations of those newly minted, yet she gave over both trust and control willingly enough.

Water rushed and swirled when they emerged beneath the surface of some other place, but she only decided there was plenty of air to fill her lungs. She swam often enough in this world; explored places most would never think to look for physical limitation. Bubbles zipped from her mouth, curls floating like a dandelion around her round face. She laughed and pushed up until the water broke over her head, and she could see what lay above.

Curiosity roamed eagerly over where he had chosen to take her. Jon had gifted a similar experience once, when he still thought her a child of the dream, but usually it was Nimeda tugging visitors into such spectacle. It was rarely reciprocated. Sodden fabric flattened against her body as she climbed out of the pool, and remained so for she did not choose to feel discomfort. The garden was well manicured, all the wild things urged into pretty patterns. It suited him somehow, that order. She squatted to run her fingers over soft petals amongst the green, then stood to tiptoe to discover the view of old buildings below.

He gave some details that honestly meant very little to her, but she was glad to receive them anyway; they buzzed excitedly through her mind like freshly plucked treasures, even though she knew she was likely to forget them before long. And then he commanded her attention away from the place he had brought her. She turned to meet his serious gaze, the pierce of his eyes like harpoons, capturing her in the moment of here-and-now. Like water cupped in hands, she stayed for a while.

Nim glanced at her palm, the pebble he had given her revealed in its centre as her fingers slowly fanned out. The spokes of the scar surrounded it, flesh jagged and red. It did not hurt. Her brows lowered a little with the effort of ordering herself for another’s benefit. A sigh pushed out from her chest. “Not me,” she said. “I do not leave here, Noctua. There’s little that could truly hurt me here.” Her eyes bounced back up to his face. If she was the drift of the current, he was the patience of the rock bed.

“It happened to my Other,” she said again, confused that he did not appear to understand the distinction. “In the world you live in when you wake?” Her other palm opened then, revealing another stone, identical to the first. She felt it between paint-speckled fingers, then held it out to him. “I don’t know what happens there. I don’t even know where she is. Moscow, perhaps. Jon said he saw her in Moscow once, but time is unusual here.”

She might have left it there but for his enduring nature, and his silence. Her expression crumpled a little. The first little bites of fear nipped at her ankles; the fear that had chased her through the dream countless times of late, submerged by the presence of lighter company, but now coaxed to the fore. “Oh dear,” she said suddenly. Her legs folded to bring her delicately to the ground, dripping all over the neat path. “Oh dear.”

“The grey lady said the mark brands me a thief, and oh but he was very angry, Noctua. She does not know -- my Other, my Other does not know, and I cannot warn her.”

[Patricus I]

He accepted the rock, comparing it briefly with its twin. She referred to herself as a separate identity again. Philip mulled over the abstract concept. It was the girl that her soul occupied while awake that endured enough trauma to brand her dream-self with permanent scars. He looked at her hand, wondering why she didn’t smooth away the skin as she had the water from her clothes. He was on the verge of dropping the subject completely until epiphany dropped her to the ground. At first he thought she was fainting and he made to catch her. Instead, as she sat, he slowly kneeled alongside, brow furrowed deep with concern.

“You are in danger,” he concluded. An angry husband or boyfriend, perhaps? The word, thief, soured his tongue, and he tilted his chin high. Her Other was nestled in Moscow, a place not out of reach of the church. If he desired, he could go himself, much to the likely amusement of Ascendancy Brandon after all these years rebuffing the Custody’s outreach.

“I’ll warn her,” he said, but he had to know whom to find. “Whom do I warn, Nimeda? Moscow is a vast place, sheltering many thousands of souls.” When next he returned the stone back to her keeping, there was a new shape blazed into its surface.

[Thalia]

Like a drowning soul she was utterly mired in the thoughts that swamped after. Memory zipped passed akin to bubbles from gasping lips, and the horror of it rushed into her expression. Puddled on the ground she did not at first notice Noctua kneel alongside. “He said he would find me, which means he must know how.” The words were whispered to herself. Her fists clenched. She had been leaving a breadcrumb trail in the canvas of her skin, knowing that injury sustained here translated in the world beyond, while also knowing her Other would be unlikely to understand the message. For what could she say in scrapes and wounds? But it was the only thing she could do.

Noctua commanded her attention once more then. For a moment she blinked at him like she’d forgotten who he was, and some moments after her eyes remained glassy and brimmed with tears. “Calvin found me once, when the dreaming stopped. But the wolves keep him away now. They do not trust me.”

He urged her to knowledge she could not give, not because she did not wish to, but because she did not possess it. How often had Jon tried to shyly coax it from her? She did not know what name was used in the world beyond her own experience, for she had never cared. Even here her moniker was for the benefit of others, to give purpose and meaning to her wildness. It was a gift she treasured; one she delighted in, actually. But it was also one that she would one day lose, when the current ripped it from her mind, and the age turned anew.

Deflated, and knowing any such answer would ultimately displease, she instead puzzled over the stone, rubbing her thumb across the mark emblazoned there, and found some small comfort in the gift. She ran her nail along the scored lines, thinking. “The flesh remembers,” she said, a little uneasily. For it might scare her Other too, to wake not just with unexplained grazes, but something more. She sighed and ran her scarred hand over her face. Emotion bubbled from her like a fountain, but he was still as glacier ice.

Then, like the swipe of a great paintbrush, the world around them blurred. It lacked the normal courtesy of warning and permission, but such was the manner in which she flung her need wide around them and hoped to find… something. It had worked for her before, when the ocean answered her call in the form of the Grey Lady. Though hopefully the ancient one would not snare them amidst this process. She did not think Noctua would enjoy the loss of control if she did.

When everything settled her eyes peeked open slowly. Despite the dry land of polished wood, Nim remained a bedraggled form, as if still freshly emerged from the water. It pooled around her and tickled between the boards unnoticed as her chin lifted to study this new arena. The sweep of her eyes caught Noctua in an apology for the haste, but it had really been the only way.