07-29-2023, 04:43 PM
Nimeda could be mercilessly stubborn, but not when she wanted something. She climbed out the long way, dripping all over the grass. Adrian was indomitable, and though he talked about flying, he felt like gravity. Entering his orbit filled her with curious sensation, and she was surprised to realise the beating in her chest grew sharp with an edge of panic the closer she got. She knew little of fear; not the true kind. But beneath the murk of memory, deeper than the shallow waters that conflated permanence with trust, was something that felt like wrongness.
She had courted the invisible Watcher’s attention before, seeking comfort in whatever connection lay buried in her awareness of him, but it had always been in vain. He had never appeared or responded. Nimeda was nothing but an inconsequential spec of landscape to whatever purpose usually brought him roaming here, even when he interceded upon Mara’s prowling. Now that she beheld the full spectacle of his scowling attention, though, she wondered if it was wise for her to be here. Not because of his anger or disgust. But because of the way she could not discern if he was a sanctuary or a cage.
“So you may look down upon us all from above,” she said, and it was as much the truth as a tease. “Does it never get lonely up there? I see no wings today.”
She presented her hands like twin sacrifices to pride. Watched his hands swallow up her own.
Adrian resisted even then. Nimeda felt it in him like thick hewn stone, a fortress built only for one. There was a solid wall and no invitation inside, just impatience to weather what must be weathered. It was not even Noctua’s uncomfortable toleration of her touch, but something that made her feel like an object to be used and discarded.
Reaching him was like squeezing through the eye of a needle.
He said he preferred to fly, which was fortunate, since her method of travel was akin to plunging off a cliff. A riot of colour and sensation spun and danced as the dream undulated in a collision of nature around them, like the raging force of a current. If Adrian gave only so much as he considered he needed to, Nimeda gave everything in trust that it would be given back. The dream always had, even when the answers were not things she wanted to see.
When everything stilled, a rocky desert vista unfolded. The transition had left her dry as bone, hair a wild mass of curls about her round and curious face. Heat stung the bottom of her soles. She was reminded of the way Noctua had dried out the waterfall, but when Adrian’s hand immediately pulled free it was her own palm she studied. There were rusted streaks of paint or blood, yet when she wiggled her fingers it curled and fell in delicate red petals into the deep crack at their feet.
“Are you always so grumpy?” she asked. She crouched to run her fingers over the rough edge of the lip; had already sat and swung her legs over the edge when it consumed them whole into the shadows. It felt like a welcome, and she revelled in the plummet.
A twist saw them safely at the bottom, though she waited until the very last moment. When next she blinked, Nimeda sat cross-legged, chin tilted up to the narrow strip of sky high above. It wasn’t the first time the dream pulled her downwards, she realised. Dust coated her skin. Exhilaration flushed her cheeks. “That felt like falling, not flying.” It sounded like an accusation, but she only laughed a little at the indignity Adrian had subjected them to. She did not look at him, suspecting he cared little about whether she was still here, and wondering if he was afraid or if he also felt that familiar pull towards what had once been belonging.
This was different from what she had shown Noctua. That had been something more ancient, and more tremulous, like offering out the lightest parts of her soul in the hope it would be cherished rather than crushed. In the mountains Nimeda knew a melancholic sense of peace. But the wonder of the temple had been something long past and not a destination. Here she could almost hear the whisper of a ghostly current stirring at her knees, tugging her onwards. Though there was no water, the winding canyon was not much different from a riverbed. “Rivers know no hurry. They reach their destination regardless.” She repeated the Grey Lady’s words to herself in a distracted murmur as she plucked at shadows and let her hazy memories crawl out in a slow rising tide. She expected to see the arboreal’s bloom, but it was a poppy nodding heavy on its stem that solidified in her grasp.
Darkness leaked out into the cramped space, hovering like a spectral vision as she contemplated the flower. Another world splashed briefly across their own before she stood. The light played strange, lengthening the majesty of wings from Adrian’s stiff shoulders for a moment, but it was the path ahead she looked. It narrowed considerably, and even as she moved past Adrian it squeezed them into proximity. She reached to tuck the poppy behind his ear on the urge of a whim, intending afterwards to lead the way.
She had courted the invisible Watcher’s attention before, seeking comfort in whatever connection lay buried in her awareness of him, but it had always been in vain. He had never appeared or responded. Nimeda was nothing but an inconsequential spec of landscape to whatever purpose usually brought him roaming here, even when he interceded upon Mara’s prowling. Now that she beheld the full spectacle of his scowling attention, though, she wondered if it was wise for her to be here. Not because of his anger or disgust. But because of the way she could not discern if he was a sanctuary or a cage.
“So you may look down upon us all from above,” she said, and it was as much the truth as a tease. “Does it never get lonely up there? I see no wings today.”
She presented her hands like twin sacrifices to pride. Watched his hands swallow up her own.
Adrian resisted even then. Nimeda felt it in him like thick hewn stone, a fortress built only for one. There was a solid wall and no invitation inside, just impatience to weather what must be weathered. It was not even Noctua’s uncomfortable toleration of her touch, but something that made her feel like an object to be used and discarded.
Reaching him was like squeezing through the eye of a needle.
He said he preferred to fly, which was fortunate, since her method of travel was akin to plunging off a cliff. A riot of colour and sensation spun and danced as the dream undulated in a collision of nature around them, like the raging force of a current. If Adrian gave only so much as he considered he needed to, Nimeda gave everything in trust that it would be given back. The dream always had, even when the answers were not things she wanted to see.
When everything stilled, a rocky desert vista unfolded. The transition had left her dry as bone, hair a wild mass of curls about her round and curious face. Heat stung the bottom of her soles. She was reminded of the way Noctua had dried out the waterfall, but when Adrian’s hand immediately pulled free it was her own palm she studied. There were rusted streaks of paint or blood, yet when she wiggled her fingers it curled and fell in delicate red petals into the deep crack at their feet.
“Are you always so grumpy?” she asked. She crouched to run her fingers over the rough edge of the lip; had already sat and swung her legs over the edge when it consumed them whole into the shadows. It felt like a welcome, and she revelled in the plummet.
A twist saw them safely at the bottom, though she waited until the very last moment. When next she blinked, Nimeda sat cross-legged, chin tilted up to the narrow strip of sky high above. It wasn’t the first time the dream pulled her downwards, she realised. Dust coated her skin. Exhilaration flushed her cheeks. “That felt like falling, not flying.” It sounded like an accusation, but she only laughed a little at the indignity Adrian had subjected them to. She did not look at him, suspecting he cared little about whether she was still here, and wondering if he was afraid or if he also felt that familiar pull towards what had once been belonging.
This was different from what she had shown Noctua. That had been something more ancient, and more tremulous, like offering out the lightest parts of her soul in the hope it would be cherished rather than crushed. In the mountains Nimeda knew a melancholic sense of peace. But the wonder of the temple had been something long past and not a destination. Here she could almost hear the whisper of a ghostly current stirring at her knees, tugging her onwards. Though there was no water, the winding canyon was not much different from a riverbed. “Rivers know no hurry. They reach their destination regardless.” She repeated the Grey Lady’s words to herself in a distracted murmur as she plucked at shadows and let her hazy memories crawl out in a slow rising tide. She expected to see the arboreal’s bloom, but it was a poppy nodding heavy on its stem that solidified in her grasp.
Darkness leaked out into the cramped space, hovering like a spectral vision as she contemplated the flower. Another world splashed briefly across their own before she stood. The light played strange, lengthening the majesty of wings from Adrian’s stiff shoulders for a moment, but it was the path ahead she looked. It narrowed considerably, and even as she moved past Adrian it squeezed them into proximity. She reached to tuck the poppy behind his ear on the urge of a whim, intending afterwards to lead the way.
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)