There was a mark on Thalia’s chest that his fingers settled upon. She didn’t seem to notice the attention to it beyond reacting to the graze of his touch. It made him smile, and he himself found his hands trailing down to her hips instead, helping her movement as they could. Their synchronization was intoxicating. He thought little more of it. Knowing that he himself bore strange marks of his own likewise unexplained.
Monster of the river. The translation tugged at his lips in pride. His own stories told him the name’s heritage, but Tristan was Icelandic, not Nordic. He only knew what was commonly known, and she was clearly the expert. “I told you I was a monster,” he joked. Soon, intensity deepened her expression, and the jokes slid from his as well. Her kiss pulled him near, and he found himself sitting close enough to hug against her. She was slicked with sweat that he trailed down the ridges of her spine. Every curve and shallow hollow was soft. If not his lips, his hands explored.
Her coming breathlessness gave him a knowing smile that closed around her lips with pleasant pride. It empowered him to move.
He’d scooped her back, lifted and rolled so they exchanged places. Tristan’s hair had come undone by then, and hung from his shoulder so close that it tickled her skin. Her legs were twigs in his arms, and he felt enormous on top of her. In the dream, they had embraced within the arms of the waters. It felt real now. A flicker of thought considered Sierra, but he had to decide that she was unharmed. The monster of the river was a monster. Tristan was that man, and he was a monster. The world could come to accept him or they could reject him. Sierra included. He was what he was.
When that release came, he sank into the softness of her embrace, careful not to smother her tiny frame. He lay there for some time, stroking her hair and trialing the pools of sweat. As the motionlessness settled, she would grow chill, and he pulled the furs to cover them both. As they lay there, his fingers trailed the mark on her chest again. He’d seen it before. "It seems we're both marked by the gods."
He let his lids close in the relaxation. His head was empty as his body, and the temptation to stay like this was strong. Eventually, he spoke, probably the first sign that he wasn't asleep.
“I like the name,” he eventually said, breathing steady and calm. “The wolves call me Sun Snatcher. And I like that name too. But I don’t like this place,” he added. “I feel like a trespasser in a realm not my own. How can I help you find what we're looking for? How do we help her?”
Monster of the river. The translation tugged at his lips in pride. His own stories told him the name’s heritage, but Tristan was Icelandic, not Nordic. He only knew what was commonly known, and she was clearly the expert. “I told you I was a monster,” he joked. Soon, intensity deepened her expression, and the jokes slid from his as well. Her kiss pulled him near, and he found himself sitting close enough to hug against her. She was slicked with sweat that he trailed down the ridges of her spine. Every curve and shallow hollow was soft. If not his lips, his hands explored.
Her coming breathlessness gave him a knowing smile that closed around her lips with pleasant pride. It empowered him to move.
He’d scooped her back, lifted and rolled so they exchanged places. Tristan’s hair had come undone by then, and hung from his shoulder so close that it tickled her skin. Her legs were twigs in his arms, and he felt enormous on top of her. In the dream, they had embraced within the arms of the waters. It felt real now. A flicker of thought considered Sierra, but he had to decide that she was unharmed. The monster of the river was a monster. Tristan was that man, and he was a monster. The world could come to accept him or they could reject him. Sierra included. He was what he was.
When that release came, he sank into the softness of her embrace, careful not to smother her tiny frame. He lay there for some time, stroking her hair and trialing the pools of sweat. As the motionlessness settled, she would grow chill, and he pulled the furs to cover them both. As they lay there, his fingers trailed the mark on her chest again. He’d seen it before. "It seems we're both marked by the gods."
He let his lids close in the relaxation. His head was empty as his body, and the temptation to stay like this was strong. Eventually, he spoke, probably the first sign that he wasn't asleep.
“I like the name,” he eventually said, breathing steady and calm. “The wolves call me Sun Snatcher. And I like that name too. But I don’t like this place,” he added. “I feel like a trespasser in a realm not my own. How can I help you find what we're looking for? How do we help her?”