Soteria

[Tristan]

++++++

The banks of a lake formed around his feet. The water was glassy, the surface still as an empty dream. “I trust you,” he told Nimeda, entwining his hand with hers. The flex of his arm may crush her bones, though only with little consequence in this place. The reminder of swimming sparked the smile of a dare, and he accepted the warning with a nod. The water swallowed him shortly after.

Perhaps it was his natural inclination for the swim or it was the invitation from a water-native that put him at ease. For some reason, just as he could run from the peak of one mountain to the next in a step, the sudden descent through the water was not disturbing.

Nimeda’s hair swarmed, and from Tristan's toothy smile erupted a stream of bubbles in return. Meanwhile, his eyes brandished gold in the dark waters as he sought awareness of their surroundings. Wolves may not like to swim, but Tristan spent his summers surfing the infamous Icelandic crests. It was with a playful nip that he tumbled and twirled in ways unknown on the land. The wolf did not traverse great waters, but the pups would play excitedly in temperate ponds. He played while he could. Laughed, even.

Downness rushed up soon after. He was a willing follower, but so also had he been when taken to Mara’s tower. Instinct rushed after the natural enemy of the wolves upon that arrival, chasing the shadow-biters known as the pets of the dark princess. When a flicker and flash in the water warned him they were not alone, curiosity streamed his gaze to follow. A scent did not tickle the nose. His arms did not pebble with warning. No threat perceived, Tristan was a passive witness to what came next. Though a slithering upon his skin made him want to shiver.

He finally caught a glimpse of the creature long enough to believe, if not yet fully understand. It was clearly female, with the curvaceous torso of shoulders, breasts and hips. Luscious lips snarled and pursed. In place of hair streamed elegant tendrils, like the feelers of a jellyfish. She was agitated as Nimeda described, but from the tilt of her eyes, Tristan saw fear. Dozens of tentacles, strong or slender, floated in her wake. Propelling her trajectory in bending arcs and flexible darts. She was elegant, powerful, yet afraid. With some coaxing, Nimeda lured his attention elsewhere. A shadow nestled on the lake floor, and finally, he seemed to understand.

A sadness crept into his chest as he floated, sadness for what was lost in this beautiful creature. On the heels of that emotion another pulsed. Arousal soon warmed his bones, one that hummed attraction to the old things Nimeda spoke of, or perhaps it was for a heart that sensed a discarded kin. He was awe-struck, almost willing the female to see him. When she paused, his hope was sparked, but the squeeze of a hand on his arm broke the connection, and two human faces broke the surface.

Drips poured down his face as they bobbed in the free water. His beard was flattened, though the war paint on his face was undisturbed. Nimeda was there, clutching his arm, nestled close to his chest. He blinked, nodding.

“I understand,” he said as the previous sensations fought being washed away. And for reasons he didn’t understand, but did not fight, he leaned to kiss her.