01-21-2019, 09:54 PM
Her feet trailed in the water, pooling ripples where she floated them through the surface. Decapitated flowers crowded her lap and the grass hollow of the tree she nestled against, deft fingers weaving them into a crown. The dress still hung damp against her skin, its discomfort unnoticed through will. Wild hair frizzed a halo, leaking droplets down her bare arms, while bright grey eyes fell to the work; idle work, its origin unknown, now that she thought about it. The unexpected crest of some ancient recollection perhaps. It happened from time to time, and Nimeda was content to let it.
Her eyes half lidded to the faint wave of a memory; of fingers ruffling through her hair, the peaceful sensation of someone tugging it into coiling braids. And a song. It faded quickly, leaving only the remnant of a tune; one she began to sing beneath her breath as she threaded the flowers. Her voice was not beautiful, but charming in its earnest simplicity, murmuring over the words forgotten like the river rushed over stones.
A presence sat at the opposite bank eventually captured her attention. Nimeda knew no fear in this world, at least not yet. The reach of her senses was blithely unwary, the shift of her focus slow, but once snared her curiosity burned bright, and contrary to the very old thing that she was, much tugged at her interest. This visitor was not new; he haunted her banks from time to time, gaze cast down to the waters like he might pierce their murk to the things she had hidden there for him. A gesture of friendship that never quite reflected back in his mirthless expression -- but therein lie the kernel of curiosity tugging at her time and again.
One day she would learn the secret to easing the line grooved between his eyes.
Most times Nimeda was content to leave him to his thoughts. Today she slipped beneath the surface, leaving only the bob of petals fallen from her lap, and reared out in front of him. Water slicked the planes of her face and the lines of her body, drowning the sleek fall of her hair darker. A smile lit her expression, unafraid and playful despite the notable pinch of his lips as she folded her arms against the bank by his folded knee.
“You cannot sing,” he said.
“The Grimnir does not like my singing. I am wounded.” She laughed. The insult slid like the water against her skin, pooling unnoticed on the grass beneath her arms. “So what would please you?”
He sighed, short and sharp, like the unwelcome question punctured the sanctity of his thoughts. But he knew well enough how to manipulate the dream; he chose to remain, despite bristles sharp as a pufferfish. Head canted, she perceived him like driftwood stuck in her currents; a problem to untangle and soothe, to nudge on its gentle way.
“Enough pieces of the puzzle to discern an answer,” he said eventually.
“Games should be pleasurable, Grim.” One hand lifted to cup her chin. Her brows rose in a tease. “I can think of a better one.”
The slate of his gaze finally arrowed down, eyes a colour that suggested warmth he did not emanate. His fists eased out, palms pooling over his knees. For a moment the resonance of him, of sky and earth and secrets, dislodged the weight of her thoughts. She floundered in the darkness of too many memories to count, speeding past like bubbles of air escaped a drowning breath. Until a voice pinned like a harpoon.
“What do you know of sea monsters?”
“A strange question.” She let go of the bank. Warm waters rushed against her shoulders, her hair fanned dark against its surface. The distance soothed. Little Bird Little Bird. Jon Little Bird. The calming mantra reeled her in.
My name is Nimeda.
“A strange question for a strange creature,” he agreed.
“I suppose I am.” She laughed again; let herself float further into the river’s embrace. “And today I know naught of sea monsters.” Her gaze bounced upwards, caught on the whim of one dark cloud, like an inky smudge against a cloth of blue. Or a stubborn stone against a rush of water. Her lip caught between her teeth, but the memory -- and the intent -- fountained up too slow. A favour! She had a favour to ask.
But when her gaze snapped down, lips parted to speak, the bank was empty; he had gone.
“Ask me tomorrow!” Her voice leapt high with the wind. She did not know if he heard.
Her eyes half lidded to the faint wave of a memory; of fingers ruffling through her hair, the peaceful sensation of someone tugging it into coiling braids. And a song. It faded quickly, leaving only the remnant of a tune; one she began to sing beneath her breath as she threaded the flowers. Her voice was not beautiful, but charming in its earnest simplicity, murmuring over the words forgotten like the river rushed over stones.
A presence sat at the opposite bank eventually captured her attention. Nimeda knew no fear in this world, at least not yet. The reach of her senses was blithely unwary, the shift of her focus slow, but once snared her curiosity burned bright, and contrary to the very old thing that she was, much tugged at her interest. This visitor was not new; he haunted her banks from time to time, gaze cast down to the waters like he might pierce their murk to the things she had hidden there for him. A gesture of friendship that never quite reflected back in his mirthless expression -- but therein lie the kernel of curiosity tugging at her time and again.
One day she would learn the secret to easing the line grooved between his eyes.
Most times Nimeda was content to leave him to his thoughts. Today she slipped beneath the surface, leaving only the bob of petals fallen from her lap, and reared out in front of him. Water slicked the planes of her face and the lines of her body, drowning the sleek fall of her hair darker. A smile lit her expression, unafraid and playful despite the notable pinch of his lips as she folded her arms against the bank by his folded knee.
“You cannot sing,” he said.
“The Grimnir does not like my singing. I am wounded.” She laughed. The insult slid like the water against her skin, pooling unnoticed on the grass beneath her arms. “So what would please you?”
He sighed, short and sharp, like the unwelcome question punctured the sanctity of his thoughts. But he knew well enough how to manipulate the dream; he chose to remain, despite bristles sharp as a pufferfish. Head canted, she perceived him like driftwood stuck in her currents; a problem to untangle and soothe, to nudge on its gentle way.
“Enough pieces of the puzzle to discern an answer,” he said eventually.
“Games should be pleasurable, Grim.” One hand lifted to cup her chin. Her brows rose in a tease. “I can think of a better one.”
The slate of his gaze finally arrowed down, eyes a colour that suggested warmth he did not emanate. His fists eased out, palms pooling over his knees. For a moment the resonance of him, of sky and earth and secrets, dislodged the weight of her thoughts. She floundered in the darkness of too many memories to count, speeding past like bubbles of air escaped a drowning breath. Until a voice pinned like a harpoon.
“What do you know of sea monsters?”
“A strange question.” She let go of the bank. Warm waters rushed against her shoulders, her hair fanned dark against its surface. The distance soothed. Little Bird Little Bird. Jon Little Bird. The calming mantra reeled her in.
My name is Nimeda.
“A strange question for a strange creature,” he agreed.
“I suppose I am.” She laughed again; let herself float further into the river’s embrace. “And today I know naught of sea monsters.” Her gaze bounced upwards, caught on the whim of one dark cloud, like an inky smudge against a cloth of blue. Or a stubborn stone against a rush of water. Her lip caught between her teeth, but the memory -- and the intent -- fountained up too slow. A favour! She had a favour to ask.
But when her gaze snapped down, lips parted to speak, the bank was empty; he had gone.
“Ask me tomorrow!” Her voice leapt high with the wind. She did not know if he heard.