Wanderlust (Olkhon Island | Baikal Lake, Siberia)

[Tristan]

Nimeda was trapped in frenzy. Tristan stared with a wary sort of fascination, like if he were to make a motion too great, the delicate dance would disappear. She moved like a fish darting erratically in shark-filled waters. Then he found no need to pop this bubble. She found them on her own, and like the fish suddenly seen by the predator, she floated absolutely motionless. Without reaction.

He stretched forth a hand offering sanctuary and peaceful reunion. Tristan was a man of imposing size and uncouth appearance. Despite the golden eyes and the guttural voice, he could be quite gentle, and he hoped she sensed a friendly spirit. She clearly didn’t recognize him. The possibility that she did and reacted with such fear was not something he wanted to imagine.

“Nimeda, you asked me to come here. I came as you asked,” he eased forward a step, then another. “I found you unconscious by the lake. We called the doctor. What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

As he came closer, he naturally absorbed the carnage strewn about the bathroom. He didn’t understand, but if anyone in the world was accepting of peculiarity – of difference – it was him.
“I’m Tristan, remember? Vánagandr?”
With a nod, he added, “and she is Sierra.”