Forest nymphs can only communicate and be called through dance.
They don't understand words, any language - only notions and the swift prances, leg over leg on grassy surfaces. And they're enthusiastic all the same. Getting lost in thought is futile, in instinct a tragedy; but getting lost in movement is bliss.
Suits me. They are the best chance at cooling a brainstorm
(apart from shooting and that other one)
and get in touch with the surroundings again, swirling between shadows and the sun freckles on it, happily feeling all the layers at once.
Sometimes, there's music. The ear cannot hear it, but the bones and souls and depths of unconscience do, and then we
(peculiar thing, I say 'we' but in reality it is me and then it is them, but they're open enough to take me as one of their own, heritage be damned)
then we know he's there.
Nothing much really changes then, because what is there that I do not know about in him, and all around?
Yet the clouds seem to gain depth, and the grass has much more colors in it than greens (and it's becautiful because it stays the same) and the rocks have a dull, echoing warmth that says they are not only what they seem, that there's history in them. And the rustle around has a order to it, with the chirps and howls and sounds of the city that might come alike.
Nothing around changes, only the senses sharpen.
The spirits rarely ever react. He may be a ghost for all they do, he passes them and not brush them once in their frenzy, yet they acknowledge him. There's never a greeting, only acceptance.
Not that the same could be said for myself; but I'm slightly clumsier (just truth) and the tune is too close not to start another dance of my own.
"You've been long."
"I'm sorry. Lots to do, I tried to make time but could not make it."
I do know I don't need to apologize - force of habit. It was merely a statement. He lets me go around like a young goat for a while, then settles down near under a tree (or maybe a bit in it). I sit next to it, then lie down.
What a poor thing that cannot meet his father!
(On the other hand, perhaps it is for the best)
Finally, the dreaded question pushes its way to my tongue and I look up.
"What would happen if Yog-Sothoth was let in?"
"Ah, I see you have heard." There's a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he was waiting when would I finally spit it out.
"The stones talked of it," I admitted. "on Sentinel Hill. Screamed, nearly, even after the time. The trees too, but mostly stones."
"Time passes more slowly for stones. And a touch of that never fades completely until they're all dust and all in different parts of the world.
I do not know, what would happen... He knew he would fail - one way or another, but he would still try. Always looking for a gap, weak spot, or mistake in context..."
"But why?" I blinked a few times. "Why do something if you know you'll fail?"
There was a grin.
"For Time and Space, life is an alien concept. He knows the theory perfectly, but not the practice. He doesn't understand everything is linked-" a hand that went through my hair sank in for a moment like a drop into water, and for a moment it was a spring. "-moving and breathing or still and cold, and wiping all life from somewhere would mean erasing everything. And subconsciously, everything fights back partially. That is why he'll fail. Does that calm you, Helen?"
"Yes, very much. I thought so. Thank you."
I sat up with a sigh, combing through my tangled (leaves, fur, air) locks with fingers.
"But how cam you know everything-?"
"I know the core of everything. I am in all. And you know it well."
I smiled sheepishly; of course.
"I would suggest seeing the flock of nymphs again, or they will leave you behind soon."
"And-?" I looked his way quizzically.
"And I will be right there."