"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
For the first time in a long time, Nemeon lets himself daydream about having a family. He knows that this is what autumn means across Beqanna, knows that this is when the foals that will arrive in spring are made. It has always been far too dangerous of a thing for him to contemplate - but maybe not anymore. Maybe not once his quest is completed and, hopefully, he returns to the mountain successful.
As with all things that would make him happy, Nemeon tries his best not to dwell on it. As though thinking too much about something he wants will mean it is less likely to happen. If he wants it too much, fate might twist it out of his grasp.
And it is not even just having a family, it is all the small ways he could be close to someone - he could receive comfort from a new friend and not cause them pain, he could quietly graze near someone without having to move constantly to avoid rotting the plants he touches. He could learn to not be so very Aware of every inch that he takes up so that he can make sure he never comes close to touching someone else.
He lets these pleasant maybe-futures swell into his brain as the sun rises, allows them to distract him from that still-present fear when his skin begins to harden into stone.
It would be nice to think he gets a day full of these warm dreams as his stone-self stands there on the edge of the forest and ruins - instead of the reality. He is just stone.
He is empty and motionless as the sun passes across the sky and, as it does every day despite his occasional doubts, eventually dips towards the horizon. He doesn't feel the faint drizzle that occurs in the afternoon before the clouds break up and leave wisps that turn brilliant reds and oranges during the sunset.
Until when that last golden sliver disappears, and he transforms from stone to flesh - and inhales his first deep breath of cool evening air.
Nemeon is radioactive
Those that touch him may experience metallic taste, nosebleed, nausea, headache, hair loss and/or skin lesions.
Symptoms become worse with prolonged exposure and onset is accelerated when exposed to his blood.
There amongst the wreckage, two things are becoming new again.
Two things materializing as the sun slips slowly (and then more rapidly) beneath the line of that great horizon.
He comes to life all at once, heaving in a world-swallowing breath, turning quite suddenly from stone to flesh. But she has been alive, skirting through the world absolutely invisible, inconsequential. She could open her mouth to scream and no one would hear her. She does not exist as a real thing until dusk, you see.
And she had been studying him for some time in the sunlight, wondering at what kind of magic could have crafted him. (She does not suspect that he is an alive thing. No, she merely marvels at how precise the angles of him, how realistically equine.) She is dissolving in reverse when he blinks awake, materializing slowly until she is fully visible there, heart slamming out a startled beat. (She had skittered backward away from him, but she had not run. So she stands there now, staring, reflecting the colors of the sunset.)
For a moment, silence stretches between them until, finally, she tilts her head and takes one small, uncertain step forward.
“I thought you were…” She pauses there, grasping for the right word, but she comes up short and shakes her head. Perhaps it’s rude to point out that she had not recognized him as an alive thing anyway.
It doesn’t happen often where Nemeon wakes and finds someone immediately in his vicinity. More often he finds smaller animals - birds that have started to make a nest in a sheltered spot on his body (luckily for him, a single night has never proven long enough for the building and the laying of eggs, or he may never be capable of moving again). Once there were fox kits roughhousing around his legs and it had taken a skilled dance to get out of there without stepping on the spooked youngsters.
The nightly ritual of a deep inhale turns into a low, surprised shout - and his wings flare just slightly - when his golden eyes latch onto the figure of a twilight mare who, for just a moment, appears hazy. But then he blinks and she is solid, and he realizes she is not posing a threat to him.
And he feels guilty for scaring her, even though he had no control over anything that occurred before that sun set - guilt is practically instinctual for him at this point.
He settles, though his heart beats wildly in his chest from the shock for a while longer still, and can understand her thought process even as she trails off - he has no idea how many others can do what he can, but so far he has not heard of any and he can only imagine how strange it must be to see.
“It’s almost like sleep, I suppose. I feel rested, but it is involuntary - and I do not think I can dream.” If there are stone-dreams, they wait for him exclusively during the day, and are nothing compared to what he might dream if he decided to waste his precious night-hours with a nap.
“I’m sorry for startling you.” He offers, sincerely, before turning his head slightly to catch the remaining signs of colour still in the western sky - a daily ritual, one he can't quite leave behind even with company.
Nemeon is radioactive
Those that touch him may experience metallic taste, nosebleed, nausea, headache, hair loss and/or skin lesions.
Symptoms become worse with prolonged exposure and onset is accelerated when exposed to his blood.
He shouts his own surprise and she, too, feels a rush of guilt. She should not have been looking so closely, she thinks, she should have simply admired the delicate architecture and move on. But she has always had this issue, hasn’t she? She has always fixated on the beautiful things, though it has most often been during the daylight hours when those beautiful things were unaware of her staring.
Instead of blurting out a misshapen apology, though, she blurts out something else entirely. The sort of question not worth asking, except that it was the first thing that had come to mind when it had appeared as if he’d been emerging from some sort of slumber.
She finds that his answer only begs more questions, though she promptly swallows them. She has overstepped already, she’s certain of it. Instead, she allows herself to consider what it might be like to sleep without knowing if it’s really sleep. She is still considering his answer when he offers up an apology and her expression (which had been slightly puzzled) dissolves around a soft smile.
“I’m sorry for staring,” she counters, “that was awfully rude of me. I just… You were so beautiful.” She says this without a shred of self-consciousness, so matter-of-fact that she may as well have been describing the weather. (But she is a thing that values beauty and she has never had any qualms about pointing it out.)
She studies his profile as he turns his face toward the horizon and then she, too, shifts her gaze to the brilliant colors of dusk. And, perhaps as an apology, she draws out the color. She stays it there on the horizon, acutely aware of how quickly it fades. But tonight, it lingers, bathing the world in its soft glow.
