05-16-2020, 03:43 PM
Thalia trickled along the path he made for them like a river trained to its banks, unconsidering of the journey.
The tone of his voice suggested the name had been bestowed to him not shared by him, which plucked a curious grin to her expression, since it implied that apparently she had done the bestowing. “‘The owl of Athena takes its flight only when the shades of night are gathering,’” she quoted, mostly to herself. That was about philosophy, not a literal thing, but it suddenly seemed apt. By the gentle tickle of her humour she clearly recognised the term, though since he used the moment for stern redress she did not think to say more. Her gaze pinged back to his face, wondering at the foundations he was building with that emphasis on reuniting her apparently disparate pieces. Before now she had imagined this only a fleeting thing; the story of a strange meeting she would tell Nox about later. With a beginning, a middle, and an end.
(something shivered, and she did not like it)
Her thumb slipped under the shoulder strap of her bag, toying with it, but she did not dwell.
She knew nothing of the workings of the world he knew her from, or the person she apparently manifested whilst there, or even if she had played party to his seeking her out. They must at least look the same, for Nimeda’s moniker to have haunted her on so many separate occasions, and yet she could not imagine this person who wore her face and shared her thoughts but not, it seemed, whatever essence might join the two. Questions bloomed, still a little shaded by temperance, in part an attempt to go slow enough to keep her feet while she explored this new current. How did they meet? Why did they meet? He clearly retained more than she, of both existences.
“She and I, we don’t share memories,” she said, though she sounded thoughtful rather than argumentative. She had gone from shying dramatically from the prospect to peering inquisitively at this new reflection in a manner of minutes, so the consideration was an utterly new one to her -- as was the concept of “we”. She was worried about you. That’s what Calvin had said, more or less; worried because Thalia hadn’t been sleeping. “But you remember dreaming. And you remember me. And I remember nothing.” None were questions, but it seemed she spoke them aloud for approval, or at least to allow correction for any missteps she made as she tried her apparent best to understand.
He paused then, and so did she, without really thinking. She watched him curiously as he bent to the task of his own drawing, and at the moment she realised what it was her breath drew in, though only because the image took her by surprise. Koit had warned her that the search in Viljandi had mentioned her scarred hand, but she hadn’t expected to be ambushed by the exact nature of her injury. It seemed a suddenly tangential swerve from the portrait Father Ando had suggested was desired, or even the nature of dreaming they had been discussing. Thalia’s mind did not always change gears quickly. At least not when she was still holding back.
A translation for the symbol had actually been one of the easier things to discern while she had been at the university library, the object it had contained less so. “Am I in trouble?” she asked. There was a static note of fear in the way she said it, though perhaps not of him in particular. Koit had wondered if it was the trinket she had found itself that the church was interested in, which had seemed impossible at the time but perhaps not so much now. Though why the Vatican would be hiding such things in an obscure tributary of an Estonian river was anyone’s guess, let alone in a box marked with a pagan symbol.
Not that she was actually convinced the laws of sense had much bearing on her life any more.
She was quite guileless as she swung her bag around to rummage its contents. Inside it smelled strongly of the cherries she’d purchased from the market, but it was the box she plucked free. “I burnt it,” she said. “On this.” The same symbol emblazoned the lid, though it was just an ordinary box now, small enough to clasp easily. Her hand was throbbing its persistent heartbeat, suggesting today’s pain relief was ebbing. It did not help that she insisted on using the hand, though since it was her dominant one it was hardly surprising that she struggled to adjust. The bandages were crisp and minimal, though the fingers poking from its edges were still poor looking things. It was clearly recent. “Is this what you came here for?”
The tone of his voice suggested the name had been bestowed to him not shared by him, which plucked a curious grin to her expression, since it implied that apparently she had done the bestowing. “‘The owl of Athena takes its flight only when the shades of night are gathering,’” she quoted, mostly to herself. That was about philosophy, not a literal thing, but it suddenly seemed apt. By the gentle tickle of her humour she clearly recognised the term, though since he used the moment for stern redress she did not think to say more. Her gaze pinged back to his face, wondering at the foundations he was building with that emphasis on reuniting her apparently disparate pieces. Before now she had imagined this only a fleeting thing; the story of a strange meeting she would tell Nox about later. With a beginning, a middle, and an end.
(something shivered, and she did not like it)
Her thumb slipped under the shoulder strap of her bag, toying with it, but she did not dwell.
She knew nothing of the workings of the world he knew her from, or the person she apparently manifested whilst there, or even if she had played party to his seeking her out. They must at least look the same, for Nimeda’s moniker to have haunted her on so many separate occasions, and yet she could not imagine this person who wore her face and shared her thoughts but not, it seemed, whatever essence might join the two. Questions bloomed, still a little shaded by temperance, in part an attempt to go slow enough to keep her feet while she explored this new current. How did they meet? Why did they meet? He clearly retained more than she, of both existences.
“She and I, we don’t share memories,” she said, though she sounded thoughtful rather than argumentative. She had gone from shying dramatically from the prospect to peering inquisitively at this new reflection in a manner of minutes, so the consideration was an utterly new one to her -- as was the concept of “we”. She was worried about you. That’s what Calvin had said, more or less; worried because Thalia hadn’t been sleeping. “But you remember dreaming. And you remember me. And I remember nothing.” None were questions, but it seemed she spoke them aloud for approval, or at least to allow correction for any missteps she made as she tried her apparent best to understand.
He paused then, and so did she, without really thinking. She watched him curiously as he bent to the task of his own drawing, and at the moment she realised what it was her breath drew in, though only because the image took her by surprise. Koit had warned her that the search in Viljandi had mentioned her scarred hand, but she hadn’t expected to be ambushed by the exact nature of her injury. It seemed a suddenly tangential swerve from the portrait Father Ando had suggested was desired, or even the nature of dreaming they had been discussing. Thalia’s mind did not always change gears quickly. At least not when she was still holding back.
A translation for the symbol had actually been one of the easier things to discern while she had been at the university library, the object it had contained less so. “Am I in trouble?” she asked. There was a static note of fear in the way she said it, though perhaps not of him in particular. Koit had wondered if it was the trinket she had found itself that the church was interested in, which had seemed impossible at the time but perhaps not so much now. Though why the Vatican would be hiding such things in an obscure tributary of an Estonian river was anyone’s guess, let alone in a box marked with a pagan symbol.
Not that she was actually convinced the laws of sense had much bearing on her life any more.
She was quite guileless as she swung her bag around to rummage its contents. Inside it smelled strongly of the cherries she’d purchased from the market, but it was the box she plucked free. “I burnt it,” she said. “On this.” The same symbol emblazoned the lid, though it was just an ordinary box now, small enough to clasp easily. Her hand was throbbing its persistent heartbeat, suggesting today’s pain relief was ebbing. It did not help that she insisted on using the hand, though since it was her dominant one it was hardly surprising that she struggled to adjust. The bandages were crisp and minimal, though the fingers poking from its edges were still poor looking things. It was clearly recent. “Is this what you came here for?”