04-09-2020, 03:41 PM
Nimeda tilted her head and watched the vague outline of her reflection do the same. She could see Noctua too in the shine of the glass. His words drained off like water from a duck’s feathers, and yet still they seemed to leave her strangely pensive -- else perhaps it was the resonance left by his answer to her earlier question. She could not rightly say. Nimeda’s names numbered many, and she did not know or remember them; this was but one droplet of identity in a churning sea. It felt a little like being presented with a glimpse of one’s soul though; something you weren’t really supposed to see. Thalia.
“That’s why Jon says it’s dangerous to reach out with Need. The Dream might answer, but not to the question you think you asked.” She tipped a shoulder, nonplussed by the academic advice -- sensible though it was -- and blinked her grey gaze to observe his profile.
She had wanted to ask if he might help Mara. But now it felt like a trespass into waters he might instead frown upon, and so she did not.
“I watch sometimes, in the inbetween place, you know? Much truth lives there.” She didn’t admit to crossing the threshold into those dreams, of course; it was an impolite thing for her to do, for starters, but also felt like it might be an action of which he would disapprove. She was cognizant of the shifts in him even if only on a subliminal level. Disapproval would sting but it would not stop her either; they were tiny windows into the world and minds of others, shining like the evening sky. The infatuation revealed her loneliness.
She came to realise, then, that he had made need sound like a bad thing, and it brushed her expression with a frown.
She was not a philosopher, and her world was primarily a sensory one. Whether it was fame or money, healing or rescue or sex, Nimeda made no judgements. It mattered little to her if those things nourished soul or sin, and she was usually willing to give whatever it was she felt someone else required, for comfort of all kinds was intrinsic to her nature; that nebulous power to forget. Puzzling over his words, she had a sense of misunderstanding though. Nim recognised all shades of sadness, but not this. Deeper than death or loss. An unfamiliar flavour. Perhaps his life beyond the dream was one bound into the service of others; ten billion souls-worth of them, which seemed a rather heavy burden. That many drifted in the inbetween place, for sure, and Nim could not hope to visit them all.
“Noctua, I would not ask you to do something for me you could not do. Or did not want to do, either. I would not ever ask it of you.” The words were simple and earnest, and as transparent as she might make them. A little confusion still lingered. It was quite clear she was concerned at being one of said needful souls to presume upon his charity. Though she did not linger upon it, any more than she had upon Tristan’s promise followed swiftly by determination that he was not even in Moscow. Curiosity continued, despite that she had the small sense that he might not welcome the questioning. “If you listen to so many, to whom do you tell your needs?" Then, a little more pensive. "Have you ever asked here? Though you should be careful. Jon was not wrong.”
“That’s why Jon says it’s dangerous to reach out with Need. The Dream might answer, but not to the question you think you asked.” She tipped a shoulder, nonplussed by the academic advice -- sensible though it was -- and blinked her grey gaze to observe his profile.
She had wanted to ask if he might help Mara. But now it felt like a trespass into waters he might instead frown upon, and so she did not.
“I watch sometimes, in the inbetween place, you know? Much truth lives there.” She didn’t admit to crossing the threshold into those dreams, of course; it was an impolite thing for her to do, for starters, but also felt like it might be an action of which he would disapprove. She was cognizant of the shifts in him even if only on a subliminal level. Disapproval would sting but it would not stop her either; they were tiny windows into the world and minds of others, shining like the evening sky. The infatuation revealed her loneliness.
She came to realise, then, that he had made need sound like a bad thing, and it brushed her expression with a frown.
She was not a philosopher, and her world was primarily a sensory one. Whether it was fame or money, healing or rescue or sex, Nimeda made no judgements. It mattered little to her if those things nourished soul or sin, and she was usually willing to give whatever it was she felt someone else required, for comfort of all kinds was intrinsic to her nature; that nebulous power to forget. Puzzling over his words, she had a sense of misunderstanding though. Nim recognised all shades of sadness, but not this. Deeper than death or loss. An unfamiliar flavour. Perhaps his life beyond the dream was one bound into the service of others; ten billion souls-worth of them, which seemed a rather heavy burden. That many drifted in the inbetween place, for sure, and Nim could not hope to visit them all.
“Noctua, I would not ask you to do something for me you could not do. Or did not want to do, either. I would not ever ask it of you.” The words were simple and earnest, and as transparent as she might make them. A little confusion still lingered. It was quite clear she was concerned at being one of said needful souls to presume upon his charity. Though she did not linger upon it, any more than she had upon Tristan’s promise followed swiftly by determination that he was not even in Moscow. Curiosity continued, despite that she had the small sense that he might not welcome the questioning. “If you listen to so many, to whom do you tell your needs?" Then, a little more pensive. "Have you ever asked here? Though you should be careful. Jon was not wrong.”