Wanderlust (Olkhon Island | Baikal Lake, Siberia)

[Sierra]

Sierra gathered up the woman's things while Tristan took her back to their room. Her bag was open and papers were slowly slipping out one by one. Sierra looked around in the moon light and caught sight of others stuck in the bushes, grass and brambles nearby. "I'm going to gather the papers that she's losing. What I can find before they all fly away." Sierra grabbed the first one caught on the edge of a large stalk of plant jutting from the ground. Drawings. Sierra could make out the lines in the dark, and they were wonderful. She tucked it carefully back in the woman's pack.

She retrieved all that she could see in the dim light of the moon. Never bound from shadow to shadow in the darkness stalking papers and holding what he could before Sierra retrieved them.

Sierra returned to their room with what she and Never could find in the darkness. The rest likely lost to the wind for eternity. It might be a fine joy for someone to find. Though Sierra thought most of them probably would have landed in the water eventually ruining them. What a shame. The woman lay on the couch. Tristan was waiting.

Never sent images to her. The pack knew her. Sierra's eyes were wide. She was in the dream. "Is this who sent you here?" She asked Tristan. There was a minor stab of jealousy but she tried not to let it show. "Never informs me that she's known in the dream. The pack avoid her. A long time she's in the dream." Sierra sighed, that's all I can put into words. Sierra sent Never the message to tell Tristan the same thing he'd told her.

[[ Just general images of who lethe would be and maybe warnings to tread carefully, they are pack memories, not Nevers ]]

[Thalia]

Thalia didn’t immediately open her eyes when she woke, though the deep breathing of sleep levelled off to something shallower. Voices trailed over her head like shooting stars, distant and incomprehensible. There was always a moment after waking before everything settled, like whatever spirit flew out to distant worlds took time to decant back into its housing. Feelings tumbled like summer storms, and usually she was alone to acclimatise. She fought for the last thing she remembered like it might soothe a growing sense of panic, but for a moment only came up with stars. Most people thought the brightest star in the sky was the North Star. But they were wrong. All you had to do was stay awake. 

“-- minimal risk of haematoma. If she’s not confused or vomiting, and as long as she has no double vision, trouble walking, or severe head or neck pain, the best thing for her will be rest--”

No small discomfort pierced the transition between existences this time, and for a while she didn’t understand why; in fact it felt like fleeing in the wrong direction, and she began to drift back. Physical aches anchored quickly enough, though. The night chill hadn’t quite left despite the blanket, her tshirt crumpled and damp from drying against the heat of her body, and her skin beneath the swimming costume chafed sore. Her temple was blazing --

“-- head wounds can often look worse due of the amount they usually bleed, and --”

-- and she shifted to touch her stiff cheek, but refrained from sliding her fingers higher to where the pain radiated. Instead her palm dropped to press where her heart was beating a torrent. She might have curled in upon herself until the need burned all the way down to her fingers with the urge to release the dream’s secrets, but then a face swam into her line of vision. Grey whiskers, square-framed glasses. The tired look of someone roused too early from bed.

Thalia blinked, felt the panic swirl into confusion, because oh she wasn’t ready to leave this in between place. Once she did, the squeezing compulsion would tighten and the drawings would spill and it wasn’t an abnormality she was ready to share with strangers. But already a hand was on her shoulder to rouse her away from hiding, and there were more gentle words, and she realised then that she was not even outside anymore. Her gaze did not stray to explore anything beyond those serious bespectacled eyes, though. How carefully she packaged herself inwards as she shifted slowly up, still tucked into herself by the time she was sat upright, one knee to chest, the blanket still strung across her shoulders. Someone must have found her, after… after…

One hand absently rubbed at her ankle, which itched, the skin an angry red. 

“-- had an accident, young lady,” he was saying, words heavily accented, but enunciated slow. “You speak English, yes? Do you know your name? Can you tell me where you are?”

Thalia’s thoughts never churned quickly at the best of times, and for a moment she was abjectly terrified that this man held her future in his hands; that wrong answers would slam like the bars of a cage, returning her to Moscow or a hospital or worse. Heat rimmed her wide eyes -- because everything was in fact entirely nebulous, and she didn’t know how to tell him that it was normal for her. Memories fought and crashed like waves, drenching her in feeling with no discernible answer or cause. He was going to watch her drown. But as she frantically picked through the driftwood of his questions, she realised he hadn’t actually asked her what had happened, and that he had no way of knowing the kaleidoscope nature of her insides.

“Of course I do,” she said eventually. “And I know I’m on Olkhon, so I guess this must be somewhere in the village? But I didn’t fall asleep here. I was by the Rock. I was by the lake.”

The doctor grunted acceptance of that answer, which was apparently proof enough of her sensibility, for he looked at her now like she was naught but a child crept errant from her bed in the middle of the night for whatever he supposed must have landed her in this mess. “She seems lucid enough,” he said as he took her chin in his cool fingers, and she did not look to see who he was talking to. She accepted the brief examination that followed in silence but for the questions he interjected. Did she feel nauseous? Did everything look normal? No double vision? But all the while she could feel the need swelling like a breath she desperately held, and it was a far worse feeling than the pain in her head, or how much blood she suddenly realised there was, until she was desperate for the excuse to pull away. At one point the doctor twisted over one of her hands, but though his lips twitched a frown, he said nothing about the second-skin bandage covering the burns. For reasons she couldn’t define, the sight of the symbol spiked her pulse to panic.

“You’re lucky, you know. No stitches required for the head. Did you slip and fall? Let’s get you cleaned up, then.” He sighed and groaned as he pushed himself up, hands on his thighs. She heard the creaky cracks of his bones as she watched him rise, and the distraction of relief unfurled as she recognised the escape. Calmer waters beckoned. 

“Oh, it’s okay, really -- I can do that for myself,” she said, shifting out of the blanket. “I just need my--” Her gaze finally swept the room, because what she really meant was I can do that for myself afterwards. After the sketches had leaked all the way out and she felt a little more herself, only for that she needed the pencil and pad in her bag -- assuming whoever lugged her from the lakeside thought to bring it (and god, what if they hadn’t?). She meant to do it quickly; find her belongings, extricate herself, hope she wasn’t really dizzy when she finally stood. There had to be a bathroom, right?  

But curiosity snagged like rocks for her first glimpse beyond the doctor’s frowning face. Amidst the quaint furnishings she discovered two large dogs (they weren’t dogs) and a woman with long dark hair, before smooth sailing met a sudden riptide and the final set of constellation eyes widened her own as round as they could possibly go. Everything stilled on the point of that recognition. The doctor was talking again, but this time she didn’t hear it.

“It’s you,” she said. Not that she knew who you precisely was beyond lines and shade on a page. He looked different in a way she hadn’t encountered before though; less refined, more real. No ink curved his cheek, the tangle of his beard wilder, the braid of his hair above shaved sides not so kempt. He was smaller, too. Surprise softened her expression, but her heart beat madly; no longer the fear Patricus had snuffed with his acerbic certainty, but certainly it left her in sudden freefall. She’d come to Baikal looking for a monster, not a man, but she didn’t know what to do with either discovery.

[Tristan]

Tristan hovered over Nimeda.

He paced as she slept. When the doctor arrived, he stood tall over the man’s shoulder. Then he would pace, return to sniff the air for change, and move about the room. A familiar sense of caged loomed like a threat. He didn’t like ineptitude. Powerlessness.

Sierra’s investigation into his motives continued, now of all times.
“Who asked for my help, yes,” he corrected, even as his hackles raised. “The pack always avoids two-legs,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. As soon as he said it, he felt guilty. He had treated Sierra poorly for weeks now. She deserved better. Tristan was far from kind.

When Nimeda stirred, relief swarmed his scent, until she found him. Fear wafted from her, but the scent was mixed with wonder. Who did she fear? Him?

“Tristan,” he said careful as unseen footfalls, not knowing where the name may land.

“The doctor thinks you fell. Did you?” he was wary of other creatures nearby, but for all their ferocious appearance, were likely to be tame. He understood the misconception.

[Sierra]

Sierra growled at his response. It wasn't that he was helping her. It wasn't even that they were in strange places. Sierra didn't know why there was even a little hint of jealousy at all in her voice. She didn't even know Tristan. And whatever she though of the connection they shared, it obviously meant little to him.

She felt the burden of people weighing heavily on her soul. Dealing with even others like her seemed to be fruitless at times. The wolves were so much simpler. But her thoughts were interrupted by the faint response of the woman who had taken up residence on their shared room's couch. There was recognition and wonder in her voice, and maybe a little bit of fear. The fear smelled harsh in contrast to the other emotions. Tristan offered his name, and asked if she fell, but Sierra found at the moment that she didn't care. The two leg was up and moving and talking -- she'd be fine.

Sierra grabbed her only bag in her fury and pulled the deer skin coat around her shoulders. She gave the woman an apologetic smile. "I'm glad you are up and about and well." She turned to Tristan. "I'm going for a walk." But the storming out the door was stalled as Sierra had to turn back to the room and wait for Never to finish his good-byes to Breona. He knew it might be the last time they'd see each other. It all depended on Sierra's mood after she started walking. And at the moment she could walk all the way back to Moscow before she cooled down.

[Thalia]

He spoke a name, and it sank like an echo, but the wary way he said it was so unlike Patricus’s certainty. For a moment she was charmed enough to be about to repeat it, like maybe wrapped in the familiarity of her own voice it would anchor something inside, but then he continued and the spell shattered. Suddenly it was all too much, toomuchtoomuchtoomuch. She swallowed, shook her head in answer, but did not linger on the memories prompted by the question as they swelled alongside the pressure behind her eyes. Or tried not to. The heady rush of dizziness crashed right over like a wave, probably from the movement (stupid), and like a leaky vessel she was capsizing.

The doctor turned to look at the gold-eyed man with a pinched frown, like he suspected a new cause to her burgeoning panic. Or maybe it was a look that vindicated existing prejudice. The woman’s abrupt intention to depart only seemed further proof of something amiss -- and there was something amiss, but not the something the doctor clearly thought. Desperate for the relief of paper, Thalia sought for a glimpse of her bag frantically now.

Why had the V--, why had he asked that question?

Why couldn’t the doctor just leave?

Everything smelled medical as said doctor instead began to sort through supplies to clean and patch her head. Panic widened Thalia’s eyes, because she knew that was going to take too long. Her skin prickled, thinking of Eha’s cottage and her ragged nails; thinking of Aylin’s cloying concern, and the meds -- and Yana, of all things, like every uninvited memory swirled like mud in churned water. A hand pressed against her knee, and she jumped from the touch, flinching away. The doctor leaned close, his voice pitched low and concerned, clearly intending to impart itself to her ears alone. “If you didn’t fall, did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said, dismayed by the accusation. She did not whisper as he had; by now her focus had gone, and the world was wavering at its edges; she could feel her control slipping. Then she spied a pen in his jacket pocket, reached for it without thinking. “I was swimming. There are too many tourists during the day. And women aren’t supposed to go near the Rock.” When her fingers wrapped tight as though clutching a talisman rather than an unremarkable biro, the first glimmers of relief lured. The words came out a rush. She wasn’t sure what her legs would do, but she shifted to stand, half tangled in the blanket.

“I need to use the bathroom first,” she said. Her pulse burst in her head for a dangerous moment, but she did not fall. The blanket puddled. She cast her gaze for the most likely door, and stumbled through it. Then, alone, she wiped the heel of her hand against the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Most of the wall was tiled. She sought the plaster, pulling the pen’s lid off with her teeth. The first mark sank deepest relief.

[Tristan]

Sierra’s scent twisted quickly putrid. He knew it was because of him. Shit. He’d never promised anything. They weren’t a couple. It was the dream. The wolves. She had some notion of pack between them, but he wasn’t a wolf. Shit maybe he should be. They probably didn’t have female troubles.

She was angry. She should be. He’d probably judge her if she just continued putting up with his bullshit.

Nimeda burst out of the room (the other direction) almost as fast. In the blink of an eye, it was just Tristan alone with the doctor. What in the world just happened? The doctor eyed him, and the familiar scent of fear hung on the air. Tristan growled to himself, but it only made the doctor’s pulse quicken. He went toward the bathroom door as if to check on Nimeda, and Tristan turned in a circle.

He stopped near the exit. He could still smell Sierra’s path on the air. He could follow her, but not much longer. Yet Nimeda was holed up behind him. If he lost her now, he may never find her again.

Here it was again. Torn. Ripped in two separate directions. The path toward Sierra was what he wanted to be; the path toward Nimeda was what he could be. Wolf or troll; and he realized the maddening pulse drumming his ears was his own.

With a roar, he pulled the door so hard it yanked off the hinges. The splintering jerked the doctor to attention with a yelp, and Tristan pointed a finger at him. 
“Don’t lose her. I’ll be right back.” He hopped the remains of the door and followed the fading trail after Sierra. Brenna hobbled on her gangly puppy legs after him.

[Sierra]

Sierra wanted to slam the door behind her but she didn't. She had no reason to be angry with Tristan, he wasn't hers, and she wasn't his. And there was nothing between them. She realized she'd been the fool drawn by the pack, the sense of belonging and the idea that maybe she didn't always have to be top dog, but Tristan was just a pup. Same as Elsye and Marta. Though Elsye might have been one longer than Sierra had been, Sierra had embraced her gift long ago. It was home. But it wasn't, she had no home anymore.

Her fury carried her forward towards the lake, the wolves were distant, too distant probably not even on the island they found themself. Sierra felt more alone than ever before.

Sierra sat down on the edge of the lake. The water lapping against the shore calming her frayed nerves. Never sniffed the air and pounced around Sierra happily -- eagerly even. His messages were frantic and chaotic in his eagerness. Sierra only got he's coming. from the frantic images. She alsmot got up and started walking again, but there was no point. He'd follow until he stopped her, but Sierra wasn't sure if she was going back. He followed the currents of man, in his own way.

When Sierra could smell Tristan, she closed her eyes fighting the sense of home and belonging. He was neither of those things she told herself. But with smell came sound and she spoke on the night air for Tristan to hear "You didn't have to follow me. Your friend needs your help." Her voice was sad, but not jealous. The loss of something she never even had played on her heart. It was time to go home -- wherever that was.

[Thalia]

Her mind fell quiet, but it wasn’t the blissful quiet of peace. More like a kind of stasis in which she worked hurriedly; an interim, a lacuna, a moment between worlds. Please be over quickly. The rearing horses of the Ascendancy’s Arch scribbled dark against the flaking paint. She recognised Moscow almost immediately, but it was a Moscow ravaged. No fear summoned from the nightmarish vision, though, just a sense of unease, and of searching, as the images spilled and grew. She tried not to look at them. But whether she looked or not, emotions continued to funnel through a surprising torrent alongside the work. She was used to that, to a degree -- it was part of what so often made the whole thing distressing, that inexplicable vulnerability. But it felt different this time, too. She told herself it was because she had never paid attention to the process until recently. That she had never woken up in a strange place among strangers. And injured.

It had to be that.

Her hand was already burning from the tightness of her grip, but pain was an insignificant distraction. Every so often she shook the pen when it threatened to run dry, felt the tears prick her eyes anew as the panic began to surge, but after a moment the ink flowed again and she slipped back under. Focus and quiet. Please be over quickly. Yet it showed no sign of abating. 

She caught her reflection as she carefully lifted a mirror from its hook to access the blank space behind, but barely paused to contemplate the blood drowning half the side of her face like something recently purged from hell. After that space was filled she climbed up onto the toilet seat to reach the wall above. Which was when the pen abruptly decided no amount of frantic shaking would coax more ink. “Nononono,” she murmured. She ran the nib over her tongue. Scribbled against the back of her hand in an effort to encourage the flow. But nothing.

Her fingers abruptly cramped. Her stomach twisted. It wasn't the same kind of pressure as it had been in Eha's cottage, when there had been no thought at all beyond the feverish fear that pulled the images from her -- with her own blood, when the lead of the pencils snapped. But she'd never tested how long she could deny the urge normally. Or what would happen if she did. God but this was already worse than it should have been. She glanced at the door. An addict's shame had always sheltered her from others' scrutiny; a life lived alone by design. She didn't choose to share this, barely even with Aylin. And she really didn’t want to go out there. Or let anyone in.

Then, a knock intruded.

Alarm spiked, even though she’d known someone was bound to check on her eventually. She climbed down in haste, head swimming, pressed the flush on the toilet to stall the door opening immediately. And to catch her balance. Too late to worry about what they'd see, but she still only opened the door a tiny way, eyes large and luminous as cornered prey. A chill rode in, lacing up her bare legs and making her shiver. She didn’t know what she was going to say. Explanation was tides away anyway. 

The doctor looked pinched and tired and wary now, like something had scared him. He spoke before she had to. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly, misreading the way she cowered behind the door. “They’ve both gone now, and I think we need to leave too.”

She blinked. Her mind turned slowly. Its path was resolute, stuck only on release. Wide eyes pleaded understanding, though she knew there was none to find. He’d see what Aylin would see. He’d see what anyone would see, the moment the pencil was in her grip and the world around faded. None of this was exactly normal. “Thalia,” she said distractedly into the empty space he left for her name, like it might buy time. Her gaze travelled the empty room, barely pausing on the unhinged door when she instead found something far sweeter. Though this time the relief flooded bitter. Because her bag held the implements she needed, but she didn’t know how she was going to justify the need.

Take it and run. Her instincts said run. They always did. 

“Thalia,” he was saying. Soft as her sister’s tone when she thought Thalia might be about to shatter into a thousand pieces. “You have a mark on your ankle like someone grabbed you there. It wouldn’t be the first time someone took something too far, panicked, and called for help. I’m not going to ask you questions, but I can't in good conscience leave you here. Do you understand? My car’s out front. I’m going to get you somewhere safe, where we can finish treating your wound.”

“I need my things,” was all she said, slipping past him to crouch by her bag. Words were like water, and she needed to finish this first, no matter the cost. She wished she'd woken up by the lake. She wished she woken up alone. But her hands were beginning to tremble, and wishing was useless. She'd deal with the consequences later. Aylin would never let them lock her up, though it tightened her chest to think of her sister's expression when she heard about this. Swimming at night. Hurting herself so badly she passed out. Crazy was such an unspoken word between them, but so sharp. She squeezed her eyes shut, braced herself for the doctor's confusion and whatever would follow. Folded papers rested carefully on top of the rest of her belongings, and she didn’t remember doing that, but maybe she had. Scales and tentacles fluttered as she reached for her sketchbook. In the same plunge she remembered the dark waters. The stupid decisions that led inexorably to now.

(don’t think about the lights).

The doctor touched her on the shoulder to urge her up. And it all just unfurled, bright and warm and terrifying. At first he looked surprised. Then she thought she’d killed him. His expression drained like someone stole the spirit right from his body and left only a puppet hanging limp on strings. But he did not fall. As he straightened he glanced down in wonder at the blood spatter on his hand, just a few spots that drip-drip-dripped from his nose. Mopped it up on his sleeve. Vacant.

She stared. Drowned in fear. A fractured memory of the break-in splintered against the man on the metro. Then back further. Her first day in Moscow. “I’m sorry I’msorryI’msorry.” Panic sent her in the wrong direction. This time she reached up to lock the bathroom door behind her before she slumped, heart pounding. Face buried in hands. Patricus’s voice saying you must not do that. Don’t think don’t think don’t think. Only there was no relief, not until she bowed over the sketchbook, and pressed pencil back to paper.

[[Thalia wiped the doctor’s memory. Not entirely, but enough that he does not recall why he’s there. Confused, he will get in his car and go home. It’s up to you guys if you witness him leaving, or if you return after he’s already gone. If you do see him, he will not recognise either of you. Thalia will stay in the bathroom until she's finished drawing, then she'd run. I'll let you guys decide whether she's still there or not. You can skip my turn until you head back.]]

[Tristan]

He sat alongside her, arms draped across his knees and peered out into the water as he had done so many times as a lad. Sierra’s melancholy scent dragged at his soul but not enough to dislodge what was built up within his own.

He never asked for Sierra’s help, he thought defensively. She treated him like a child. It was demeaning and condescending, always warning him about this and that, or reminding him of his infantile experience with the wolves.  

He felt caged again. Like an animal locked in those rolling circus carts for the spectacle he was. For all their time spent together, he knew very little about Sierra’s life. Her real life, lived as a girl. If she had friends, she rarely spoke of them. Her parents were presumably gone, but that was obviously for the best.

“I’m different in the dream,” he finally said. Then he tossed a pebble into the water and watched the ripples fade as they hit shore. “I am certain of myself, and then suddenly, something happens that changes it all. I treated you like shit. Doing what we did in the dream and then pretending it never happened once we woke.” He hung his head, purposefully not looking at her, and instead grabbed another pebble and tossed it farther than the last.

He turned the stone over in his hand. It was cool. Worn down by years of water. “Nimeda isn’t a friend like you think. I did with her what I did with you, and like with you, I will probably pretend it never happened. I don't even know her.”

Nimeda wasn't even the reason he was here. This time, when he tossed the pebble, he wondered if she felt its disturbance.

Then his voice fell to a whisper, like he spoke to himself as much as to Sierra. 
“I think it’s because I’m closer to them while there.”  

[Sierra]

Sierra sighed. He smelled like she felt. But he was also angry too, with her. Sierra didn't press. Didn't need to know. "The dream is just as real for people like you and me as this real life is. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here helping or looking for whatever it was you came here for." She wanted to growl at his admission but she already knew it. Sierra wasn't sure if it was better that he didn't know her or not. But it didn't matter really.

She wanted to tell him she was going home, but his voice struck a chord, the way he said them. "Them?" Was he speaking of his trolls? The wolves? His family? There were so many them he could be talking about.

[[ sorry could only focus on *them* lol ]]