Caerus (almost)

[Tristan]

Tristan’s hands clasped behind his back, thumbnails trailing ridges down the skin as he paced. He had no knowledge of the inner workings of psychiatric hospitals. Did Iceland even have one? Even in the wolf dream, the place smelled like bleach and loneliness. Nimeda was clever, though. “We all have a touch of madness,” he said, eyes cut as severe as his voice.

“There are three ways to escape your dungeon, Mara. First, you are released by those that bound you. Second, you burst from your bars by the will of your own strength. Third, you give your captors every reason to believe you are cured and they let you go.”

The light danced on his eyes as he crossed to Mara. Darkness shrouded the girl as though the pets of her being stole light by their very presence. But where darkness reigned, wildfire stirred. Tristan knelt at her feet, cupping the angle of her jaw upward. “Abide by the third. Be smart. Be normal. I will come back for you from time to time. I am not in Moscow. My human reach is short, but my brothers span the world. I will try what I can.”

He had to consider whether the Huldufólk woman would help. He had not seen float or flit of gray robes in many cycles of the dream or many spans of days. Perhaps need pulled the Fairy woman to him. Something to consider.