03-12-2019, 06:45 PM
Nimeda ran for as long as the tears rolled careless down her cheeks, until the sting of loneliness eased its grip, and let her forget. For once she allowed herself to unravel, memories spooling free, identity lost to a thousand lives.
She still had no answers the next time the grimnir came. Sombre as ever he stared across the river, where the trees crowded in full bloom of spring. It was peaceful here, quiet in the way of nature absent man. Frustration drew Grim to her haunts most often, when the waking world’s problems posed a question he could not answer. Though whether he ever found those answers she did not know. Nim leaned into the bank, half submerged in the river’s embrace. She picked idly at the muddy grass, watching the muscle twitch annoyance in his cheek every time he let himself become aware of the crawling curiosity of her gaze.
One of his eyes flickered sometimes, like the socket suddenly hollowed itself out. It had happened before, some days more than others, in the same way he occasionally shifted attire when his mastery stretched too loose. Clothes she could understand. But eyes? On whim she reared up from the water to run her fingers along his cheek bone, curious, but he caught her tight about the wrist inches from his face. The grip was not kind, her flesh mottling, and his eyes narrowed as if offended by the aborted touch.
“That hurts,” she accused, bracing her other hand on the muddy bank.
“You irritate me.”
“You know there are other thinking spots.”
When he let go she massaged her skin, glaring, then pulled herself out of the river -- her river, let him remember -- to perch beside him, feet rippling its glassy surface. The pale folds of her dress soaked through, molding to the contours of her body. She was rarely ever truly self conscious, but he never looked at the flesh beneath anyway. Her toe poked the surface. Water rolled over that tiny mountain, the droplets marching up into the sky, like it rained backwards.
A memory pierced then, unbidden, rushing fascinating into her expression. Something in the way the clouds above slithered and twisted. Nimeda’s head tilted, the distraction of her play forgotten, and she nudged the grimnir with her elbow, gesturing the sky. “I first found you in a nightmare,” she said. “The sky writhed like the scales of a serpent squeezing the soul of the earth, until the heavens fell in a showering of old bones, each one crashing with a shudder. And there were eyes in the darkness.”
Though they were not touching, she sensed the way he tensed, perhaps caught in the snare of a more visceral memory than the conversational tone of her own recollection. Since little in this world left the remit of the dreamer’s control, she understood such things in a lighter way. Fear was a thrill to be enjoyed and banished like a child’s game. It was a lesson she tried to teach from time to time, usually without success.
She leaned forward to catch his gaze, damp hair coiling up in her lap. “Why are you afraid of wolves?”
“You will stop now.” The words cut harder than normal, so much so that she actually flinched back in surprise. Even when he was annoyed (most of the time, like a shroud of morning mist) it was like an afterthought. Now his mildly disinterested gaze skewered. She had never seen him quite that angry, and thoughts crashed furiously in the wake of it. It was not the troll, it was the wolf? Oh, even now it was an understanding she could not quite master, the knowledge swept just out of reach. She bit her lip and let it go for now, heeding the echo of the grey lady’s words, because something else was stirring in her chest, the sort of yearning that burst in fiery compassion and awakened all the threads of her many lives to attention.
Anger was but a mask for pain.
Fear ruptured ugly when you looked deep enough.
Nimeda’s hand itched to sooth, the light beating bright within; such a lulling siren call. She leaned like a flower tilted towards the sun, a measure of sadness in her wide grey eyes. “I could take it away,” she said softly. “The thing that hurts. You still have that same dream, don’t you?”
His expression only flattened. Long limbs unfurled until he stood like a shadow darkening the sun. The warning was sharp. “Stay out of my head, Nimeda.”
She still had no answers the next time the grimnir came. Sombre as ever he stared across the river, where the trees crowded in full bloom of spring. It was peaceful here, quiet in the way of nature absent man. Frustration drew Grim to her haunts most often, when the waking world’s problems posed a question he could not answer. Though whether he ever found those answers she did not know. Nim leaned into the bank, half submerged in the river’s embrace. She picked idly at the muddy grass, watching the muscle twitch annoyance in his cheek every time he let himself become aware of the crawling curiosity of her gaze.
One of his eyes flickered sometimes, like the socket suddenly hollowed itself out. It had happened before, some days more than others, in the same way he occasionally shifted attire when his mastery stretched too loose. Clothes she could understand. But eyes? On whim she reared up from the water to run her fingers along his cheek bone, curious, but he caught her tight about the wrist inches from his face. The grip was not kind, her flesh mottling, and his eyes narrowed as if offended by the aborted touch.
“That hurts,” she accused, bracing her other hand on the muddy bank.
“You irritate me.”
“You know there are other thinking spots.”
When he let go she massaged her skin, glaring, then pulled herself out of the river -- her river, let him remember -- to perch beside him, feet rippling its glassy surface. The pale folds of her dress soaked through, molding to the contours of her body. She was rarely ever truly self conscious, but he never looked at the flesh beneath anyway. Her toe poked the surface. Water rolled over that tiny mountain, the droplets marching up into the sky, like it rained backwards.
A memory pierced then, unbidden, rushing fascinating into her expression. Something in the way the clouds above slithered and twisted. Nimeda’s head tilted, the distraction of her play forgotten, and she nudged the grimnir with her elbow, gesturing the sky. “I first found you in a nightmare,” she said. “The sky writhed like the scales of a serpent squeezing the soul of the earth, until the heavens fell in a showering of old bones, each one crashing with a shudder. And there were eyes in the darkness.”
Though they were not touching, she sensed the way he tensed, perhaps caught in the snare of a more visceral memory than the conversational tone of her own recollection. Since little in this world left the remit of the dreamer’s control, she understood such things in a lighter way. Fear was a thrill to be enjoyed and banished like a child’s game. It was a lesson she tried to teach from time to time, usually without success.
She leaned forward to catch his gaze, damp hair coiling up in her lap. “Why are you afraid of wolves?”
“You will stop now.” The words cut harder than normal, so much so that she actually flinched back in surprise. Even when he was annoyed (most of the time, like a shroud of morning mist) it was like an afterthought. Now his mildly disinterested gaze skewered. She had never seen him quite that angry, and thoughts crashed furiously in the wake of it. It was not the troll, it was the wolf? Oh, even now it was an understanding she could not quite master, the knowledge swept just out of reach. She bit her lip and let it go for now, heeding the echo of the grey lady’s words, because something else was stirring in her chest, the sort of yearning that burst in fiery compassion and awakened all the threads of her many lives to attention.
Anger was but a mask for pain.
Fear ruptured ugly when you looked deep enough.
Nimeda’s hand itched to sooth, the light beating bright within; such a lulling siren call. She leaned like a flower tilted towards the sun, a measure of sadness in her wide grey eyes. “I could take it away,” she said softly. “The thing that hurts. You still have that same dream, don’t you?”
His expression only flattened. Long limbs unfurled until he stood like a shadow darkening the sun. The warning was sharp. “Stay out of my head, Nimeda.”