Caerus (almost)

[Tristan]

So many words.

Nimeda spoke in riddles, and anxiety twitched his ears impatient. It was not her words that held him enthralled, however. It was her scent. Whimsy trickled away and in its place seeped a stern focus and joy stolen.

With her feet tended, the scent of blood faded. He knelt alongside Nimeda, nose coming nearer as though the proximity would translate his confusion. Instead, his eyes brandished the sunlight so rarely bright along the northern arc of the world. Nostrils flared. The enormity of her friend’s confinement constricted chains digging into his ribs.

“The Hildufólk are wise.” He slipped hands into hers, lifting the twig of a girl to her wobbly feet. First, dry, solid land would serve them well. One step. Two. The next he was opening the door to the home beyond the Trollstone. It’s gleaming twists glared and glinted the thin light, as disapproving of the union between Tristan and Nimeda as Thorn Paw. Within, Tristan found towels to wrap her wounds. When he pulled them away, the skin was smooth beneath. He dabbed his own shoulders next. 

Thorn Paw watched from the door but did not enter the abode of two-legs.

“I am Tristan, Nimeda. The Otherworld is a strange place, and I have run from one shore to the other, leaping to new ones, but you are the first woman I have seen here. Tell me how to find your friend and I will break her chains.”