Wanderlust (Olkhon Island | Baikal Lake, Siberia)

[Thalia]

Her mind fell quiet, but it wasn’t the blissful quiet of peace. More like a kind of stasis in which she worked hurriedly; an interim, a lacuna, a moment between worlds. Please be over quickly. The rearing horses of the Ascendancy’s Arch scribbled dark against the flaking paint. She recognised Moscow almost immediately, but it was a Moscow ravaged. No fear summoned from the nightmarish vision, though, just a sense of unease, and of searching, as the images spilled and grew. She tried not to look at them. But whether she looked or not, emotions continued to funnel through a surprising torrent alongside the work. She was used to that, to a degree -- it was part of what so often made the whole thing distressing, that inexplicable vulnerability. But it felt different this time, too. She told herself it was because she had never paid attention to the process until recently. That she had never woken up in a strange place among strangers. And injured.

It had to be that.

Her hand was already burning from the tightness of her grip, but pain was an insignificant distraction. Every so often she shook the pen when it threatened to run dry, felt the tears prick her eyes anew as the panic began to surge, but after a moment the ink flowed again and she slipped back under. Focus and quiet. Please be over quickly. Yet it showed no sign of abating. 

She caught her reflection as she carefully lifted a mirror from its hook to access the blank space behind, but barely paused to contemplate the blood drowning half the side of her face like something recently purged from hell. After that space was filled she climbed up onto the toilet seat to reach the wall above. Which was when the pen abruptly decided no amount of frantic shaking would coax more ink. “Nononono,” she murmured. She ran the nib over her tongue. Scribbled against the back of her hand in an effort to encourage the flow. But nothing.

Her fingers abruptly cramped. Her stomach twisted. It wasn't the same kind of pressure as it had been in Eha's cottage, when there had been no thought at all beyond the feverish fear that pulled the images from her -- with her own blood, when the lead of the pencils snapped. But she'd never tested how long she could deny the urge normally. Or what would happen if she did. God but this was already worse than it should have been. She glanced at the door. An addict's shame had always sheltered her from others' scrutiny; a life lived alone by design. She didn't choose to share this, barely even with Aylin. And she really didn’t want to go out there. Or let anyone in.

Then, a knock intruded.

Alarm spiked, even though she’d known someone was bound to check on her eventually. She climbed down in haste, head swimming, pressed the flush on the toilet to stall the door opening immediately. And to catch her balance. Too late to worry about what they'd see, but she still only opened the door a tiny way, eyes large and luminous as cornered prey. A chill rode in, lacing up her bare legs and making her shiver. She didn’t know what she was going to say. Explanation was tides away anyway. 

The doctor looked pinched and tired and wary now, like something had scared him. He spoke before she had to. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly, misreading the way she cowered behind the door. “They’ve both gone now, and I think we need to leave too.”

She blinked. Her mind turned slowly. Its path was resolute, stuck only on release. Wide eyes pleaded understanding, though she knew there was none to find. He’d see what Aylin would see. He’d see what anyone would see, the moment the pencil was in her grip and the world around faded. None of this was exactly normal. “Thalia,” she said distractedly into the empty space he left for her name, like it might buy time. Her gaze travelled the empty room, barely pausing on the unhinged door when she instead found something far sweeter. Though this time the relief flooded bitter. Because her bag held the implements she needed, but she didn’t know how she was going to justify the need.

Take it and run. Her instincts said run. They always did. 

“Thalia,” he was saying. Soft as her sister’s tone when she thought Thalia might be about to shatter into a thousand pieces. “You have a mark on your ankle like someone grabbed you there. It wouldn’t be the first time someone took something too far, panicked, and called for help. I’m not going to ask you questions, but I can't in good conscience leave you here. Do you understand? My car’s out front. I’m going to get you somewhere safe, where we can finish treating your wound.”

“I need my things,” was all she said, slipping past him to crouch by her bag. Words were like water, and she needed to finish this first, no matter the cost. She wished she'd woken up by the lake. She wished she woken up alone. But her hands were beginning to tremble, and wishing was useless. She'd deal with the consequences later. Aylin would never let them lock her up, though it tightened her chest to think of her sister's expression when she heard about this. Swimming at night. Hurting herself so badly she passed out. Crazy was such an unspoken word between them, but so sharp. She squeezed her eyes shut, braced herself for the doctor's confusion and whatever would follow. Folded papers rested carefully on top of the rest of her belongings, and she didn’t remember doing that, but maybe she had. Scales and tentacles fluttered as she reached for her sketchbook. In the same plunge she remembered the dark waters. The stupid decisions that led inexorably to now.

(don’t think about the lights).

The doctor touched her on the shoulder to urge her up. And it all just unfurled, bright and warm and terrifying. At first he looked surprised. Then she thought she’d killed him. His expression drained like someone stole the spirit right from his body and left only a puppet hanging limp on strings. But he did not fall. As he straightened he glanced down in wonder at the blood spatter on his hand, just a few spots that drip-drip-dripped from his nose. Mopped it up on his sleeve. Vacant.

She stared. Drowned in fear. A fractured memory of the break-in splintered against the man on the metro. Then back further. Her first day in Moscow. “I’m sorry I’msorryI’msorry.” Panic sent her in the wrong direction. This time she reached up to lock the bathroom door behind her before she slumped, heart pounding. Face buried in hands. Patricus’s voice saying you must not do that. Don’t think don’t think don’t think. Only there was no relief, not until she bowed over the sketchbook, and pressed pencil back to paper.

[[Thalia wiped the doctor’s memory. Not entirely, but enough that he does not recall why he’s there. Confused, he will get in his car and go home. It’s up to you guys if you witness him leaving, or if you return after he’s already gone. If you do see him, he will not recognise either of you. Thalia will stay in the bathroom until she's finished drawing, then she'd run. I'll let you guys decide whether she's still there or not. You can skip my turn until you head back.]]