04-05-2020, 11:52 AM
Noctua moved to explore their new terrain, and Nimeda flopped back against the floor like it was a cradle of soft grass rather than hard boards. A careless swipe of her fingers urged the ceiling to part for the night’s sky above, filled not with the twinkling promise of other dreams, but a moving constellation of stars. It was only at the utterance of Moscow that her attention diverted from her idle play, and when she twisted upright once more her clothes were bone dry, her wild curls ordered now into braids around her crown. “I’m not fond of this city,” she said. “It sleeps so deeply these days. It’s not what I remember.” Though what that might be she did not elucidate.
Noctua called himself a wolf before, unknowing of what he spoke for he was certainly not of the kin, yet she understood the sentiment in her own unique way. He was more like a father. Her lips quirked a pleasant smile at the comparison. It made her feel safe, like some small creature sheltered in the palm of another, but also rained down other, older memories. A lattice of rules caged alongside that protection, once; rules she broke with impunity and childlike enthusiasm, both in her friendship with Melinoë but also others that ought not cross the boundary into His shadowy realm. Forbidden was not a concept natural to her watery soul.
She bounded to her feet, a blurred shift from one state to the other, and absorbed the shifting room herself. A penchant for bright colour flooded the walls, for which she laughed delightedly. Some old song hummed itself to her lips, eyes half lidded to a memory of wagon wheels and a happier time. What a strange thing to have persisted! Meanwhile she began to riffle curiously through the detritus of her Other’s existence. Canvas fluttered. Paintings bloomed and faded. She held a ripped sheaf of paper in her hands for a moment, a drawing of a riverbank that held almost the detail of a photograph. A moment later it crinkled with folds like it had spent some time in the confines of a pocket, before it vanished altogether.
“Do you help all those who have a need, Noctua?” He was standing expectantly by one of the windows, framed by the cityscape beyond. She did not seem to mind his inactivity. Behind her a canvas set upon an easel scrawled furiously into something violent and fiery. A blink later and the entire studio was cast in bloody droplets of paint, the painting ruined, and then gone. Meanwhile Nimeda pondered a framed picture containing the mirror of her own face alongside another whose dreams she watched frequently. Such a practical mind drifted often to the white halls of her most enduring passion; her work. And Mara’s prison. Nimeda shivered.
She reached distractedly for Noctua’s hand once more, and their world changed again; quickly this time, and without flourish, as to the whim of one used to travelling by such means.
The second dwelling was more orderly in its arrangement, and if it moved in flux as all such ephemera did, it did so into various states of clinical precision. Nimeda blinked. This time she did not release Noctua’s palm immediately, taking everything in with a wide gaze first. She had seen this place in her sister’s dreams on the occasions she did not dream of work, but never passed the threshold of her own volition. Such urbanisation held little charm for her, despite the very precious soul who called it home in the waking world. The apartment was simply furnished and neat. Nim’s bare feet padded to a framed picture on the wall, beside a bookcase whose innards gently fluctuated like soothing tides. A newspaper clipping lay trapped beneath the glass. Nim could see the faint trace of her own outline reflected against the sheen, imposed over the paper and ink portrait of her smiling Other standing beside a painting. Words accompanied the photograph, but Nim only stared curiously at this strange proof of a life she had no memory of.
Noctua called himself a wolf before, unknowing of what he spoke for he was certainly not of the kin, yet she understood the sentiment in her own unique way. He was more like a father. Her lips quirked a pleasant smile at the comparison. It made her feel safe, like some small creature sheltered in the palm of another, but also rained down other, older memories. A lattice of rules caged alongside that protection, once; rules she broke with impunity and childlike enthusiasm, both in her friendship with Melinoë but also others that ought not cross the boundary into His shadowy realm. Forbidden was not a concept natural to her watery soul.
She bounded to her feet, a blurred shift from one state to the other, and absorbed the shifting room herself. A penchant for bright colour flooded the walls, for which she laughed delightedly. Some old song hummed itself to her lips, eyes half lidded to a memory of wagon wheels and a happier time. What a strange thing to have persisted! Meanwhile she began to riffle curiously through the detritus of her Other’s existence. Canvas fluttered. Paintings bloomed and faded. She held a ripped sheaf of paper in her hands for a moment, a drawing of a riverbank that held almost the detail of a photograph. A moment later it crinkled with folds like it had spent some time in the confines of a pocket, before it vanished altogether.
“Do you help all those who have a need, Noctua?” He was standing expectantly by one of the windows, framed by the cityscape beyond. She did not seem to mind his inactivity. Behind her a canvas set upon an easel scrawled furiously into something violent and fiery. A blink later and the entire studio was cast in bloody droplets of paint, the painting ruined, and then gone. Meanwhile Nimeda pondered a framed picture containing the mirror of her own face alongside another whose dreams she watched frequently. Such a practical mind drifted often to the white halls of her most enduring passion; her work. And Mara’s prison. Nimeda shivered.
She reached distractedly for Noctua’s hand once more, and their world changed again; quickly this time, and without flourish, as to the whim of one used to travelling by such means.
The second dwelling was more orderly in its arrangement, and if it moved in flux as all such ephemera did, it did so into various states of clinical precision. Nimeda blinked. This time she did not release Noctua’s palm immediately, taking everything in with a wide gaze first. She had seen this place in her sister’s dreams on the occasions she did not dream of work, but never passed the threshold of her own volition. Such urbanisation held little charm for her, despite the very precious soul who called it home in the waking world. The apartment was simply furnished and neat. Nim’s bare feet padded to a framed picture on the wall, beside a bookcase whose innards gently fluctuated like soothing tides. A newspaper clipping lay trapped beneath the glass. Nim could see the faint trace of her own outline reflected against the sheen, imposed over the paper and ink portrait of her smiling Other standing beside a painting. Words accompanied the photograph, but Nim only stared curiously at this strange proof of a life she had no memory of.