08-07-2022, 09:38 PM
She nodded, a little distracted by the soft shadows that swallowed them into the archway; the way it rushed over her skin like a tiny puff of air. There was reverence in his tone she had not expected to find; most had an entirely different reaction to her eccentricities and the way she burbled about fantasies with conviction. Tolerance, sometimes; a confused side-eye often enough. She smiled a little. “Alas, we’d be looking in the wrong place. I know where he is – in a box on my nana’s mantlepiece. That’s a whole different kind of adventure. She says she’ll follow him one day, give him the kiss of his life first, and then a slap for leaving her alone for so long.”
Tristan was a strange one, definitely. She wondered what kind of upbringing moulded a man who believed in faeries, and how she might coax those stories out of him like buried treasure. He seemed the silent type. What surprised her most, though, was talk of an after. His gruff mannerisms had suggested she was an inconvenient accessory to unearthing the creature she had supposedly sent him to find. He hadn’t wanted her company; she had insisted on it, and so she’d already assumed that when he discovered what he came for, he and Sierra would move on, like everyone else who’d intersected the peculiar nature of her journey since Moscow. “We,” she murmured to herself, just to see what it sounded like.
Narrow corridors separated each adjoining room, domed like the tunnels in aquariums, though nothing but darkness drifted outside even when Thalia prodded every now and then with little flicks of power (and looked a little guilty every time she took the risk). The subsequent rooms presented a little differently, each its own little microcosm of study encased in the same vein-threaded walls, and she itched to explore with more than a marvelling glance. Tristan’s padding steps kept her at least somewhat on task, though. She tilted her face up to the starscape from time to time, but seemed quite confident in their direction, even as she paused frequently to draw all the surreality in. The light round them was soft, glowy enough to see by, but she began to wonder if this place was in a kind of hibernation. It certainly felt asleep, else traversing it was what she imagined dreaming to be like. Which was why she assumed her mind began wandering to such strange places.
It all felt so achingly familiar in here, and it was getting difficult to ignore. Fear intruded like a cold current; that maybe she was still strewn out on the rocks by the lake. That this was all just the twitchings of a dying mind.
Finally, they stepped into a sumptuously furnished study. The marine smell faded, although she was sure it still clung to her own clammy skin. An ornate desk dominated the oval space, too sleek and iridescently dark to be wood. An equally impressive chair faced it, made to the proportions of someone delicate and small. Cases of books and curiously old fashioned scrolls decorated the walls, which roiled behind like smoke and cloud, as if they had ascended into the heart of a storm. There were cabinets too, their secrets folded away behind doors carved into the bodies of beasts, and an empty hearth big enough for Thalia to step fully into (not that she did). It was all incredibly majestic, aside from the pile of blankets and cushions draped on a corner of the floor like a recalcitrant child had made a nest to cure boredom.
For the first time there were doors rather than open archways around the edges. A painted constellation decorated the one Thalia approached, a star she recognised as the last thing she’d seen before darkness had descended on the rocks by the lake. That realisation settled a little funny in her bones, cooling her blood, squeezing her skin like it didn’t fit her body. The brightest star, my love. For when you are lost. Her hand had already reached out, certain, and now suddenly drew back as though burned. She was not sure if she imagined the words or really heard them, but she stumbled backwards a little, whatever confidence that had led them to this point burned to ash in the pit of her stomach.
Her hand pressed against her chest, then balled against her racing heart.
“Blankets will do,” she said, mostly to herself.
A few books littered amongst the cushions on the floor, splayed as though abandoned. Thalia did not recognise the language, but she plucked curiously at a loose page as she bent down. Cramped in the margins was a crude figure made of one wiggling line, its body unravelling, its face scribbled out. She was still staring at it in horror when the fire bloomed suddenly in its hearth, flames black and smokeless. Of its own accord, apparently. It made her jump, but it also swept away the spell of inertia and fear with its oddity. “That wasn’t me,” she said as she gathered the blankets, offering one to Tristan if he wanted it, and unfurling the other about her own shoulders. The damp swimming costume was by now uncomfortable, and she doubted his own clothes were any better. She made a face for such meagre offerings of succour, but at least it was warm in here.
She finally glanced anew at the study surrounding them, like she could dredge answers from the deep. For a moment her gaze lingered on the blurred tattoo on Tristan's chest; it was almost exactly level with her line of sight when she was standing close. But the only thing she discovered in her contemplations was how exhaustion nudged a reminder into her aching body. Adrenaline carried her this far, but the rippling weight of fabric soft against her shoulders was like a promise of comfort and safety. She wasn’t sure being unconscious half the night counted as true rest, and by the frenzy of her scribblings all over the cabin’s bathroom, her dreaming had been tumultuous. Fingers barely healed from Eha’s cottage were raw and sore again, not to mention the still-healing burn on her palm. She felt fit to curl up right on the floor. Resting was a bad idea, though. Or at least waking was a bad idea without a sketchpad to hand. Plus Sierra was waiting; she was going to think they’d drowned.
Thalia didn’t care to dwell on the true fear; that she would wake and everything would be gone. That she would wake into someone else. That she would lose everything she fought to find.
“There must be something here, right?” she said. And there probably was, though she didn’t know where to start now the conviction had fled and the task felt like a mountain. She blinked a few times, slowly, like she could rouse herself to action. They just had to find the right room.
To a creature that looked like it was drawn straight from a fantasy book.
“I’m half afraid to ask if this is all really real. Sometimes I‘m not sure I know what is, and what...” She trailed off, not sure admitting it would relieve the burden. The confession ended in a soft shrug instead. What could he say to that? She shifted her weight, running her gaze over the objects and papers on the desk, though she didn't disturb anything there. “I kind've thought finding her would be like finding a lost piece of myself. A connection to those parts of myself I don’t understand, you know? She looked so angry and afraid in the sketches. I’ve felt like that before too.” A pattern had been carved into the top of the desk, and she followed it with her fingertips as she spoke, but she was thinking about a face all sharp fangs and sorrow, a heart in his hands. She wondered then if Tristan looked at the creature; at the beauty of her armoured scales, of the feral slit of her too-human eyes, and saw kin.
”Why did you call yourself a monster, before?”
Tristan was a strange one, definitely. She wondered what kind of upbringing moulded a man who believed in faeries, and how she might coax those stories out of him like buried treasure. He seemed the silent type. What surprised her most, though, was talk of an after. His gruff mannerisms had suggested she was an inconvenient accessory to unearthing the creature she had supposedly sent him to find. He hadn’t wanted her company; she had insisted on it, and so she’d already assumed that when he discovered what he came for, he and Sierra would move on, like everyone else who’d intersected the peculiar nature of her journey since Moscow. “We,” she murmured to herself, just to see what it sounded like.
Narrow corridors separated each adjoining room, domed like the tunnels in aquariums, though nothing but darkness drifted outside even when Thalia prodded every now and then with little flicks of power (and looked a little guilty every time she took the risk). The subsequent rooms presented a little differently, each its own little microcosm of study encased in the same vein-threaded walls, and she itched to explore with more than a marvelling glance. Tristan’s padding steps kept her at least somewhat on task, though. She tilted her face up to the starscape from time to time, but seemed quite confident in their direction, even as she paused frequently to draw all the surreality in. The light round them was soft, glowy enough to see by, but she began to wonder if this place was in a kind of hibernation. It certainly felt asleep, else traversing it was what she imagined dreaming to be like. Which was why she assumed her mind began wandering to such strange places.
It all felt so achingly familiar in here, and it was getting difficult to ignore. Fear intruded like a cold current; that maybe she was still strewn out on the rocks by the lake. That this was all just the twitchings of a dying mind.
Finally, they stepped into a sumptuously furnished study. The marine smell faded, although she was sure it still clung to her own clammy skin. An ornate desk dominated the oval space, too sleek and iridescently dark to be wood. An equally impressive chair faced it, made to the proportions of someone delicate and small. Cases of books and curiously old fashioned scrolls decorated the walls, which roiled behind like smoke and cloud, as if they had ascended into the heart of a storm. There were cabinets too, their secrets folded away behind doors carved into the bodies of beasts, and an empty hearth big enough for Thalia to step fully into (not that she did). It was all incredibly majestic, aside from the pile of blankets and cushions draped on a corner of the floor like a recalcitrant child had made a nest to cure boredom.
For the first time there were doors rather than open archways around the edges. A painted constellation decorated the one Thalia approached, a star she recognised as the last thing she’d seen before darkness had descended on the rocks by the lake. That realisation settled a little funny in her bones, cooling her blood, squeezing her skin like it didn’t fit her body. The brightest star, my love. For when you are lost. Her hand had already reached out, certain, and now suddenly drew back as though burned. She was not sure if she imagined the words or really heard them, but she stumbled backwards a little, whatever confidence that had led them to this point burned to ash in the pit of her stomach.
Her hand pressed against her chest, then balled against her racing heart.
“Blankets will do,” she said, mostly to herself.
A few books littered amongst the cushions on the floor, splayed as though abandoned. Thalia did not recognise the language, but she plucked curiously at a loose page as she bent down. Cramped in the margins was a crude figure made of one wiggling line, its body unravelling, its face scribbled out. She was still staring at it in horror when the fire bloomed suddenly in its hearth, flames black and smokeless. Of its own accord, apparently. It made her jump, but it also swept away the spell of inertia and fear with its oddity. “That wasn’t me,” she said as she gathered the blankets, offering one to Tristan if he wanted it, and unfurling the other about her own shoulders. The damp swimming costume was by now uncomfortable, and she doubted his own clothes were any better. She made a face for such meagre offerings of succour, but at least it was warm in here.
She finally glanced anew at the study surrounding them, like she could dredge answers from the deep. For a moment her gaze lingered on the blurred tattoo on Tristan's chest; it was almost exactly level with her line of sight when she was standing close. But the only thing she discovered in her contemplations was how exhaustion nudged a reminder into her aching body. Adrenaline carried her this far, but the rippling weight of fabric soft against her shoulders was like a promise of comfort and safety. She wasn’t sure being unconscious half the night counted as true rest, and by the frenzy of her scribblings all over the cabin’s bathroom, her dreaming had been tumultuous. Fingers barely healed from Eha’s cottage were raw and sore again, not to mention the still-healing burn on her palm. She felt fit to curl up right on the floor. Resting was a bad idea, though. Or at least waking was a bad idea without a sketchpad to hand. Plus Sierra was waiting; she was going to think they’d drowned.
Thalia didn’t care to dwell on the true fear; that she would wake and everything would be gone. That she would wake into someone else. That she would lose everything she fought to find.
“There must be something here, right?” she said. And there probably was, though she didn’t know where to start now the conviction had fled and the task felt like a mountain. She blinked a few times, slowly, like she could rouse herself to action. They just had to find the right room.
To a creature that looked like it was drawn straight from a fantasy book.
“I’m half afraid to ask if this is all really real. Sometimes I‘m not sure I know what is, and what...” She trailed off, not sure admitting it would relieve the burden. The confession ended in a soft shrug instead. What could he say to that? She shifted her weight, running her gaze over the objects and papers on the desk, though she didn't disturb anything there. “I kind've thought finding her would be like finding a lost piece of myself. A connection to those parts of myself I don’t understand, you know? She looked so angry and afraid in the sketches. I’ve felt like that before too.” A pattern had been carved into the top of the desk, and she followed it with her fingertips as she spoke, but she was thinking about a face all sharp fangs and sorrow, a heart in his hands. She wondered then if Tristan looked at the creature; at the beauty of her armoured scales, of the feral slit of her too-human eyes, and saw kin.
”Why did you call yourself a monster, before?”
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)