04-16-2021, 09:34 PM
For a moment Thalia looked surprised, and maybe a touch confused. She blinked. Her mind churned slowly, accepting the arrival of unexpected tides even when she was quite lost, but nonetheless taking a long time to acclimatise to them. The woman’s manner was as warm as sunshine sparkling on water, and it was probably the promise of that kindness which eased Thalia’s muscles to slump against the door behind her, like she was finally given permission to release the tension. No sign of the doctor, thankfully. Not that she dared look too hard. No point tempting fate; that one always liked to dance.
One hand still tangled the front of her tshirt, but she’d already forgotten why it had seemed necessary only moments before. Instead Thalia rubbed idly where she’d accidentally pinched the skin, and reached for the paper offered. If she seemed bewildered to have discovered company beyond her self-imposed bathroom prison, she did not seem remotely perturbed by the state she knew she must present to their scrutiny -- which she imagined to be somewhat like the mangy stray cat you feel sorry enough for to bring in from the cold, only to puzzle at what you’re supposed to do with it afterwards.
The throbbing in her head was not an insignificant amount of pain, enough to make her squint a little to focus, but for such a small creature she had a surprising threshold for it. Particularly when her mind was caught on something. Her brows lifted. “Tuuru,” she said. Which, of all the things she might have been immediately presented with was so far down the (these days) quite bizarre list it was disorienting. The plant creature sent tiny rippling shivers up her arm, for a reason she could not quite discern. She remembered the small green shoot growing stubbornly through the wall in the city. How she’d paused despite the jostling of the busy crowds around her. It made her think of Noctua. But if her thoughts reached for an epiphany, they did not find it.
She didn’t answer about whether she was alright, still apparently considering her own drawing. The short answer was quite emphatically no, but all the heavy feelings swelling and cresting inside were not burdens she would lay down on a stranger. In any case, the longer and more complex answer was yes, she would be, and it seemed an acceptable shortcut to say nothing. Her stomach growled in lieu of articulate words anyway. A loan of dry clothes also sounded heavenly, although the woman was tall and willowy in a way that made Thalia feel a comparatively squat goblin. She gave an unguarded smile.
Then her large eyes took a blink, coming loose from the safe bubble. Before then she’d been making some unconscious effort not to look at Tristan, though she was aware he was there. The tunnel vision was a service of self-survival, a blinkering of herself she employed as naturally as breathing. But when mountains moved it was hard not to look. Back in Estonia she’d fled from Patricus the first time she’d recognised him from her sketchbook, though admittedly not far (not like the man on the metro). She’d avoid this situation too, if she could, but there wasn’t anywhere to run. And she didn’t even have shoes.
He had his hands out. Was moving slow. To calm her flighty nature, or perhaps to keep her at arm’s length (don’t think about the doctor). Either way she took his outstretched hand as an invitation to determine that he was, in fact, real. A relieved breath loosed from her lungs when it proved to be quite ordinary as far as hands went: warm, calloused, and far cleaner than the bloodied mess of her own. Not that she had truly expected a hallucination, but given the uncomfortable lie of her reflection moments before she felt justified in the fear. He was scruffier than she’d drawn him, but only like someone who spent more time outdoors than in front of a mirror. And without the tattoos, that she could see anyway. But he was smaller too, which was saying something considering she could probably wrap her entire hand around a single one of his thumbs.
“Oh.” She was internalising less of what he was saying than she probably ought, but her thoughts were fit to bursting. She probably looked confused. But the last things he said, at least, had permeated, and the rest would probably trickle through at some point. “No. No one hurt me.” The inference bothered her, though she couldn’t articulate why. She realised in the same moment it might have been a lie. Her memories were all shadowy recesses she was loath to explore, and would have preferred the privacy to puzzle over alone first. She ran a distracted hand over her arm, the flesh there tingling with goosebumps, the hairs static. “At least I don’t think it was on purpose?”
The last was said mostly to herself. She tipped her foot at an angle to stare down at her bruised ankle. A kaleidoscope of emotion passed freely across her expression, colourful as an artist’s palette. Awe and terror and wonder, but it ended in a beam like sunrise -- not for what had happened in the lake, but for what it meant. She didn’t articulate the epiphany into words, but it felt like a breath of validation. To not be completely crazy. Or not alone in it, anyway, and that was just as good. She grinned at Tristan, her marvel a river overflowing its banks, and in no haste to explain herself. Like she even could. The feelings were too big. Maybe he would understand, and maybe he wouldn’t. At that moment though, he was the only one who even could, and that was also enough.
Practicality wasn’t exactly high on Thalia’s list of qualities. Two things stopped her bursting out the door (or the rectangle shape where the door had once been) to chase the whim of the lake, tugging them both along behind her, if either would even follow. The first a word that plunked deep below the surface, and disappeared, but broke the train of her thoughts. The second the realisation that she was less stable on her feet than she’d have liked. Reality anchored. She looked at Sierra as she was introduced. Seemed to remember where she was.
“It wasn't me you came to find. Else you’d already know,” she said to Tristan. It wasn't phrased like a question, but her head tipped curiously. Calvin had known about her apparent duality when he had sought her out in Moscow (though Thalia hadn’t believed any of it at the time). Patricus had known too, though he had attempted to reconcile her two halves, and she suspected he had been disappointed when she truly did not remember him. Tristan was asking it as a question, though. He hadn’t been forewarned. He wasn’t here because he’d been supposed to find her.
For a moment she wondered if she’d have died on those rocks if not for the remote chance of being found by someone who’d come for entirely different reasons, though it wasn’t the threat of her own mortality that struck her. It was knowing that had she woken up alone, the memories would have buried themselves. The goosebumps were distracting, but probably just because she was cold.
“You look different,” she said. Then, contemplating a dirty, blood-smeared hand, added. “Well, probably so do I.”
She paused then, but only for a moment.
“I don’t know how to explain. But I can show you?” It was a question; one that asked for trust. She was thinking of the intimacy in her sketches, unsure if he would want to share those secrets with his companion. Or even with her; it was one thing to live it, but quite another to relive it. It wasn’t the sexual images she was thinking of, although considering Sierra’s presence he might find that awkward for another reason. She was thinking of the teeth grown like tusks burst from his mouth. The candid pain in his expression, head in hands. He might not even like to see that himself.
One hand still tangled the front of her tshirt, but she’d already forgotten why it had seemed necessary only moments before. Instead Thalia rubbed idly where she’d accidentally pinched the skin, and reached for the paper offered. If she seemed bewildered to have discovered company beyond her self-imposed bathroom prison, she did not seem remotely perturbed by the state she knew she must present to their scrutiny -- which she imagined to be somewhat like the mangy stray cat you feel sorry enough for to bring in from the cold, only to puzzle at what you’re supposed to do with it afterwards.
The throbbing in her head was not an insignificant amount of pain, enough to make her squint a little to focus, but for such a small creature she had a surprising threshold for it. Particularly when her mind was caught on something. Her brows lifted. “Tuuru,” she said. Which, of all the things she might have been immediately presented with was so far down the (these days) quite bizarre list it was disorienting. The plant creature sent tiny rippling shivers up her arm, for a reason she could not quite discern. She remembered the small green shoot growing stubbornly through the wall in the city. How she’d paused despite the jostling of the busy crowds around her. It made her think of Noctua. But if her thoughts reached for an epiphany, they did not find it.
She didn’t answer about whether she was alright, still apparently considering her own drawing. The short answer was quite emphatically no, but all the heavy feelings swelling and cresting inside were not burdens she would lay down on a stranger. In any case, the longer and more complex answer was yes, she would be, and it seemed an acceptable shortcut to say nothing. Her stomach growled in lieu of articulate words anyway. A loan of dry clothes also sounded heavenly, although the woman was tall and willowy in a way that made Thalia feel a comparatively squat goblin. She gave an unguarded smile.
Then her large eyes took a blink, coming loose from the safe bubble. Before then she’d been making some unconscious effort not to look at Tristan, though she was aware he was there. The tunnel vision was a service of self-survival, a blinkering of herself she employed as naturally as breathing. But when mountains moved it was hard not to look. Back in Estonia she’d fled from Patricus the first time she’d recognised him from her sketchbook, though admittedly not far (not like the man on the metro). She’d avoid this situation too, if she could, but there wasn’t anywhere to run. And she didn’t even have shoes.
He had his hands out. Was moving slow. To calm her flighty nature, or perhaps to keep her at arm’s length (don’t think about the doctor). Either way she took his outstretched hand as an invitation to determine that he was, in fact, real. A relieved breath loosed from her lungs when it proved to be quite ordinary as far as hands went: warm, calloused, and far cleaner than the bloodied mess of her own. Not that she had truly expected a hallucination, but given the uncomfortable lie of her reflection moments before she felt justified in the fear. He was scruffier than she’d drawn him, but only like someone who spent more time outdoors than in front of a mirror. And without the tattoos, that she could see anyway. But he was smaller too, which was saying something considering she could probably wrap her entire hand around a single one of his thumbs.
“Oh.” She was internalising less of what he was saying than she probably ought, but her thoughts were fit to bursting. She probably looked confused. But the last things he said, at least, had permeated, and the rest would probably trickle through at some point. “No. No one hurt me.” The inference bothered her, though she couldn’t articulate why. She realised in the same moment it might have been a lie. Her memories were all shadowy recesses she was loath to explore, and would have preferred the privacy to puzzle over alone first. She ran a distracted hand over her arm, the flesh there tingling with goosebumps, the hairs static. “At least I don’t think it was on purpose?”
The last was said mostly to herself. She tipped her foot at an angle to stare down at her bruised ankle. A kaleidoscope of emotion passed freely across her expression, colourful as an artist’s palette. Awe and terror and wonder, but it ended in a beam like sunrise -- not for what had happened in the lake, but for what it meant. She didn’t articulate the epiphany into words, but it felt like a breath of validation. To not be completely crazy. Or not alone in it, anyway, and that was just as good. She grinned at Tristan, her marvel a river overflowing its banks, and in no haste to explain herself. Like she even could. The feelings were too big. Maybe he would understand, and maybe he wouldn’t. At that moment though, he was the only one who even could, and that was also enough.
Practicality wasn’t exactly high on Thalia’s list of qualities. Two things stopped her bursting out the door (or the rectangle shape where the door had once been) to chase the whim of the lake, tugging them both along behind her, if either would even follow. The first a word that plunked deep below the surface, and disappeared, but broke the train of her thoughts. The second the realisation that she was less stable on her feet than she’d have liked. Reality anchored. She looked at Sierra as she was introduced. Seemed to remember where she was.
“It wasn't me you came to find. Else you’d already know,” she said to Tristan. It wasn't phrased like a question, but her head tipped curiously. Calvin had known about her apparent duality when he had sought her out in Moscow (though Thalia hadn’t believed any of it at the time). Patricus had known too, though he had attempted to reconcile her two halves, and she suspected he had been disappointed when she truly did not remember him. Tristan was asking it as a question, though. He hadn’t been forewarned. He wasn’t here because he’d been supposed to find her.
For a moment she wondered if she’d have died on those rocks if not for the remote chance of being found by someone who’d come for entirely different reasons, though it wasn’t the threat of her own mortality that struck her. It was knowing that had she woken up alone, the memories would have buried themselves. The goosebumps were distracting, but probably just because she was cold.
“You look different,” she said. Then, contemplating a dirty, blood-smeared hand, added. “Well, probably so do I.”
She paused then, but only for a moment.
“I don’t know how to explain. But I can show you?” It was a question; one that asked for trust. She was thinking of the intimacy in her sketches, unsure if he would want to share those secrets with his companion. Or even with her; it was one thing to live it, but quite another to relive it. It wasn’t the sexual images she was thinking of, although considering Sierra’s presence he might find that awkward for another reason. She was thinking of the teeth grown like tusks burst from his mouth. The candid pain in his expression, head in hands. He might not even like to see that himself.
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)